The Glass Sun Shatters
by ElectricSkeletons
Summary: Water falls from the abysmal sky. Drops of silver whistling in the chaos. Her heart is pounding, her legs burn. She's waiting for everything to break apart, she's waiting for life to shatter. The light burns brighter when tempered, the glass cracks to the violent noise. Welcome to the 43rd Hunger Game.
1. Three

**I know I'm still working on another Hunger Games fic but I couldn't stop myself. I missed the actual Games. To those of you who have followed my other writing I hope it lives up to the others, and to new ones I hope you enjoy as well. If you're feeling up to it leave feedback, if not that's fine too. I'm laidback. ENJOY. **

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_Three_

The winds whispered. Their invisible tendrils swirled around crumbling buildings, decaying trees, and foul smelling sewers. Only a few trees grew in District 5, each one warped and deformed from the industrially scorched earth and radiating power stations. Meera Eastwood could feel the heat from those far-off power stations now. Her thick auburn hair answered the whispering wind with a stir, hair the color of aged blood. She was on the edge of a slanted roof. One foot gracefully dangled from the eave while the other pressed close to her chest.

The sun was beginning to rise. She craned her neck to the west. The lights of the power stations were still glowing in the half-light. Firefly Field. That was what the District 5 natives called it. From far off the glowing lights almost looked peaceful, it was hard to imagine that they housed most of Panem's electricity beyond their puffing smokestacks and electrifying walls, it was hard to imagine how deadly they were. The stations and factories surrounded the core of District 5 like a barrier leaving only a small livable area for the citizens. The shanties, or the core of D5, were the livable areas—a huge beehive of buildings pressed together. Despite the low population of the District it was a nest of starving people and strained muscles. Here people worked together, lived together, and died together.

There was no need for a fence around the District because every person, young and old, knew there was nowhere to run. Even if they found enough courage to escape into the strips of wilderness waiting for them to the south and west the chances of them surviving was slim—peacekeepers made sure of that.

District 5. The harnesser of electricity and power. If death were a place, Meera was sure it was here.

Normally she would have still been asleep, wedged in her bunk with the rest of the orphans in her poorhouse—not today, not this morning. Her stormy blue eyes squinted as the sun broke through the horizon. A strip of the wilderness turned gold for a heartbeat. Below her she could hear the District starting to wake but her gaze remained on the sky—the vast sky that looked as if some unknown being had cracked the sun open like an egg and watched it's yolk spill colors across the blue.

"Meera…_Meera_!" A small voice squeaked behind her.

Her hands gripped the edge of the roof, the metal eave was already warm form the morning sun. When her neck strained to turn around she parted her lips. The window she had slipped through was cracked open. A dirty face with round brown eyes was staring at her. She knew the face well.

"You better come back inside, Mapes is asking for us all downstairs."

"Why?"

"I—I don't know."

Meera took in a breath. "It's never a good sign when Mapes calls everyone down, normally she's asleep in her office."

"I saw workers from Firefly Field," Brown Eyes leaned away from the window for a split second to listen, "C'mon, we have to go. She's threatening to take away our breakfast if we don't."

_Workers from Firefly Field_. It sent a shiver down Meera's spine, a shiver that made her crawl up the slate tiles so fast that before Brown Eyes could blink she was gliding through the half-opened window and into a room filled with beds and dust.

The floorboards creaked as she followed her friend through the rooms. The poorhouse had 5 floors and many stairs.

"Zara. Meera," Mapes identified as they inched into the room, "Where have you been?"

"Sorry," Zara whispered bowing her head and falling in line with the other orphans who were waiting.

Meera didn't respond.

Mapes was a crude woman. Tall and lanky she towered over almost every orphan in her poorhouse.

"These are all of them, then?" One of the workers asked.

Meera peered to her left and then her right. All the orphans were standing in a row. There were only 20 of them but the room was so small that it looked like much more. The ages varied. Meera was 17, Zara only 14. Boys and girls were mixed together. Some had just lost their parents, others like Meera had lost them years ago. She felt bad for the new ones. Their salty tears were fresh on their cheeks, but she hadn't cried for a long time now.

"Yes," Mapes answered, eyeing each of her orphans carefully, "What is this about?"

One worker peered to the other and let out a long breath, "The Capitol commands more hands for help in the power stations, in the energy plants. We've been told to search the poorhouses for these hands."

Even though the worker was keeping up a strong façade one look in his eyes told Meera how sad he was. It was hard to send your own to toil in the factories for the sake of the rich. It was hard when the factories were so dangerous and workers dropped like flies because of accidents and exhaust.

A pang of fear sliced through Meera. She cupped her hands behind her back and noticed Zara tighten her posture nervously. Even Mapes suddenly looked anxious.

"How many?" Mapes's voice was softer than Meera had ever heard it.

"Only 3 from this one. Many of the orphans are still young."

The fear grew. Meera wasn't young anymore, not by District 5 standards. 17 was old enough to work in a factory. The thought terrified her.

"But with the Reaping tomorrow—"

"Orders, Ma'am. I'm sorry they're just orders. We have to follow them."

Slowly the workers broke apart. They passed by each orphan, studying them and jotting notes into their panels.

_Steady breaths_. Meera stared ahead. Her warrior face had been developed over the years of tragedy and starvation. She wouldn't flinch now. She wouldn't show fear.

Finally one of the workers got to her. She glanced to his face as he studied hers.

"Age?" The man asked.

"17."

"You're small for a 17 year old."

It was true. Meera was short, but maybe this was a good thing. She could feel her palms getting sweaty, "Yes."

Quickly he jotted something into the panel and rubbed his chin. She pursed her lips when he looked back to her, a deep sigh simmering from her lungs as he continued to walk.

A chorus of whispers and grumbled echoed down the line as the first two were picked. Both were boys. One of them barely looked 13. A second passed before the last was picked. This time it was a girl. She was Meera's age but much more tall, much more muscular.

"That'll do," one of the workers nodded.

"You should be proud of yourselves. From now on you're part of a different family."

The words were meager comfort for the chosen three. The smallest boy looked like he was going to break down in tears. Meera quickly realized he was one of the new orphans, one of the ones who had lost all his real family. Her eyes shut to blot out the sadness that was creeping inside. This was the world they lived in. This is what life is. The weak are devoured and the strong persevere. Soon Meera would have to face the factories, but not yet, not now.

Each of the chosen ones hung their heads low, letting the workers escort them to their futures. Futures laced with tragedy and labor.

Later that night she crawled into bed and pressed her face against the pillow. It wasn't stuffed with feathers, in fact Meera didn't want to know what it was stuffed with. The sheets smelt like dirt and sweat. She pulled the torn quilt to her chin. The open window let a cool breeze inside. All around her, through the darkness, she could hear soft snores and gentle cries. The cries were from the scared ones, the ones that mourned for the chosen three and for the coming reaping.

"Meera, are you awake?"

Zara's voice sounded empty.

"Yes."

Silence.

"They're starting to take us when we're younger."

Zara waited for a reply but Meera gave her nothing.

"I heard some girls talking about running into the wilderness. Can you imagine? Maybe it would be easier that way. Maybe they're right. There has to be something else out there besides Panem."

Meera glanced to the window. The stars were twinkling.

"Those girls are fools."

"But maybe—"

"There is no maybe, Zara. This is our life. There's nowhere to go beyond all this. Don't you remember what happened to the boy from the shanties down by the lake?"

Everyone knew what happened to that boy. A day before he turned 18, a day before he was going to be forced into the factories with the rest of them, he tried to escape. He got only a mile into the surrounding wilderness before his foot caught on a booby trap. There wasn't much for the peacekeepers to do so they decided to disguise these little mines of death for courageous runaways. The boy blew up into a million pieces. Meera scrunched her nose as she recalled the black pillar of smoke and fire that climbed high into the sky that day. She was only 12.

"The reaping's tomorrow."

Zara's words brought her back to the cold dark room, to the musty sheet.

"Yes."

"Are you scared?"

Near the window the curtains knocked against a wall. Down the hall she could hear murmurs. No doubt Zara wasn't the only one terrified of tomorrow. She twisted the quilt closer to her face.

"Are you?" was her only reply.

"More than anything."

The reaping wasn't something that you got used to—the Capitol liked it that way.

"Are you, Meera?" she repeated.

For a heartbeat she thought of answering but the longer she thought about it the more speechless Meera became. Instead she rolled over and glued her eyes to the open window, to the sparkling stars—stars that gave her a small bit of comfort amidst the ache.

"Go to sleep, little Zara. Tomorrow will be long."

_Long_. That wasn't the right word for it, not at all, but it was the only word that she allowed her lips to make.

"Will you walk with me tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"Goodnight, Meera."

When she finally fell asleep she dreamt of the boy by the lake shanties. Only she was the boy and not herself. She was running through wilderness, over stone, and around wind torn trees. She could sense her own desperation, taste panic bitterly oozing in her mouth. A breeze of freedom taunted her, a breeze Meera Eastwood knew she would never truly understand.


	2. Beneath the Blistering Sun

_Beneath the Blistering Sun _

A train whistle crashed through Meera's restless sleep. Her heart jumped. The scratchy sheets stuck to her skin as she opened her storm blue eyes. Inside the packed room the air was stale and stifling, even with the cracked window. Within those sparse hours of slumber a suffocating sweat had formed on her brow, worsened by nightmares—now in her half-conscious state it felt like she was drowning in the heat.

Another whistle. This time closer. A whistle that sent gooseprickles down her spine.

_The reaping. _

She had almost allowed herself to forget.

A train was porting in the station. A train that would take one male and female Tribute to the Capitol to fight to the death. It should have been enough to chill the sweat away from her weeping bones, but it wasn't. Meera was barely able to pull the sheets away from her legs before the door flew open.

Mapes was a skeleton silhouette. The clunk of the door sent a few girls jumping in surprise.

"It's time," the ominous whisper rattle out of those wrinkled lips with a fire. There wasn't much more to say other than that. Every orphan heard the solemn cadence in her voice, it was slight but enough to spark fear in the strongest of children. Without reply each girl of age followed her. The others stayed in their sweating beds, cradling close to one another with wide and watchful eyes. It was easy to figure out what those lucky ones were thinking. Someday this would be them, someday they would be dragged in a row and wait for their names to be called. When it wasn't…a glimpse of relief would sweep over them. When it did…Meera shook her head, she couldn't fathom what it felt like, she had never felt it. She imagined it was like hearing Death shout out your name. Your number would be up, _"the end is near"_ Death would say. Today you are a Tribute, tomorrow a dead little girl with sour memories and hopeless eyes. No one will remember that you died because you died for nothing.

She crossed her arms as they walked along the cold floor, down three flights of stairs and into a tiled room. The showers in the poorhouse were communal, rarely used because in District 5 it wasn't uncommon for the water to be shut off most of the time. But of course during the reaping every faucet was catered with all the water needed, water enough to wipe away the sandy grime of District 5 so that their sacrifices would look pristine for the cameras.

Only the young ones were self-conscious as they discarded their clothing, but not Meera. She slipped out of her nightgown and walked to the nearest shower. It spit chaotically for the first heartbeats, hissing before it decided to flow more freely. The water was colder than she remembered it being. Her teeth chattered together as she grabbed the nearest soap bar and began scrubbing.

One of the girls was crying. It would have been hard to tell if it hadn't been for her low and mournful whimpers. It was her first reaping. Meera gravely pursed her lips and tried to look away but it was hard.

"It's always hard for the first timers."

Dark auburn strands stuck to her cheek and neck as she turned her head to the side. Zara was violently lathering her left arm in soap that slivered down her ebony skin. Her expression read with equal parts fear and empathy. Meera swallowed hard, looking back to the tile wall. The terror was so heavy in the showers she wanted to scream.

"She'll be fine," she whispered it to Zara, quickly realizing that she really telling herself the lie.

"You never forget your first time."

"Sadly."

Zara spit out some shower water and groaned. "Sadly," she agreed.

Dressing felt ritualistic—somehow symbolic. In the poorhouses and orphanages no money flowed in. There were no special dresses for them to wear for such an occasion as the annual reaping, on items of luck. Orphans barely had a right to their last name let alone material possessions. Mapes had laid out the dresses on each bed. They were all identical, all made from the same cheap fabric. A simple white dress, nothing more. Meera slipped it over her head and fastened the buttons. It fell just below her knees and somehow made her fair skin look paler. She tied her hair half up and glanced at the free flowing strands, already they were drying from the heat.

No one spoke. No one even dared a loud sigh. When all were dressed they wander down the steps and into the hall. The boys were waiting there as well, each wearing a hardened face. Today was no day for smiles and laughter.

Mapes was sipping a glass of water. Her hand shook as she lowered it back to the table and lifted her eyes to the orphans. Zara once said that the only time Mapes was nurturing was on the day of the reaping, looking at the middle-aged woman now Meera had to agree. She could barely muster a smile let alone gentle words on most days, but today Mapes knew she had to make an exception.

Her sorrowful eyes shifted from one face to another. Only 10 of them were there, but it was half the poorhouse. Meera could barely touch her breakfast. Something about the day felt wrong—different and foreign. She pushed a roll of bread to Zara's plate before grabbing water and dropping her eyes to the cracked plate.

"I know it seems frightening but—"

_Ding-dong-ding_

A series of bells interrupted Mapes's speech. Meera's gaze twitched to the windows. The glass panes rattled in response to the bells. Someone dropped their silverware. Even Zara who had been nervously stuffing her mouth with sandy bread froze. The bells were calling to them. Time was up. Their song was shrill and deafening.

Suddenly Mapes dropped her napkin and rose to her feet. Every eye turned to her, waiting for her to say something, anything. She rubbed her wrinkled lips together.

"Good luck."

Meera's lips parted. It wasn't comforting, but nothing would be at this point.

One by one they lifted from their seats and walked to the door.

The bells were louder outside. The chiming melody made Meera's ears ache. She could feel every groove and rock underneath her boots. The rays of the sun bled over them so radiantly she had shield her eyes to look around until they finally adjusted to the brightness. At some point her fellow friends were lost in the crowd of gathering children. They were all heading south—toward the District center. Some were joined by older siblings, others by parents—Meera's eyes lingered on those in particular. She wondered if she would be as scared right now if her parents were there to hold her hand and sigh sweet lies to sooth her. Her eyes narrowed at the thought, there was no soothing the gathering storm.

The sun climbed higher into the sky as the clearing of decrepit buildings emerged. The sandstone steps leading up to a newly erected platform, which was decorated with a single microphone and two glass orbs, each one filled with names. Television screens had been set up. The camera crews were awaiting the beginning of the ceremony. Iron doors remained closed for the time being, but peacekeepers flanked its sides. The sight of them made Meera's blood curdle. She didn't flinch when they pricked her finger, but her insides quickly started to twist once she fell in line with the others.

Her white dress stirred around her legs.

The bells continued.

She could feel her breaths shortening. This wasn't like the fear of being picked for the power stations and factories. It was realer, more acidic and trembling. In the factories you could die, but in the Hunger Games there was no chance of a girl from District 5 surviving. It wasn't until she felt a sweaty hand grabbed her that she finally allowed a single gasp to escape her lips. Her eyes urgently shifted to the side. Zara didn't look at her, but her hand was comfort enough. Last night Zara was terrified, but now, standing in front of the platform steps, she looked calmer than ever. It was Meera who was scared. It was Meera who could barely breath.

She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on Zara's hand. They might have lost their families, but they had each other.

After one final rattled ring the bells stopped.

The square was silent.

Dust from Firefly Field drifted in. It was a terrible day for a sandstorm. Sweat trickled down Meera's neck. A tinge of pink kissed her nose and cheeks.

They stood there for what seemed like hours until the doors inched open. They creaked and moaned with the sound of metal on metal. A few children took a step back. A heartbeat thumped against Meera's ribcage as she watched a single figure emerge from the darkness and into the noonday sun.

He wore a strange leather-trimmed outfit that looked uncomfortable for the heat. His skin was dyed a pale blue, almost silver looking, and his hair was sculpted from wisps of darker blue strands. The man walked with self-assurance, even cockiness. He crooned into the microphone with a hum before adjusted his high-necked shirt and smiling.

"Hello and welcome!"

His voice statically echoed through the square. Meera felt Zara's hands tense.

"I am so honored to be the Capitol representative for District 5 during the 43rd Hunger Games! May the odds be in all of your favors, and your families! The Tributes that will be picked should be proud to represent such an…illustrious District."

She grimaced. It was an obvious lie. No one cared about the people of District 5, only their electricity. He was simply sweetening them up for the slaughter.

Cameramen excitedly navigated on the steps to get a better angle of the representative. His image was plastered on the screens above the crowd. Up close he looked much younger then his voice hinted at.

"Shall we get down to it!?" He cheered, rubbing his hands together.

No one replied, but of course he wasn't expecting a reply.

Ladies were first.

Suddenly Zara's grip felt too restraining. The man was swirling his silver hands in the glass orb like he was about to cast a terrible spell, and it started to make Meera's head swirl. She harshly wiggled her hand back and felt the fabric of her dress. If Zara was shocked she didn't show it. He smiled happily as he waded through the thick slips of names. He actually looked excited about this, as if it was an honor to perform such a duty. When he finally pulled a single paper out Meera straightened her back and parted her lips.

At that moment she only recognized faint details.

The representative's cold silver-blue lips.

The sand-laced wind.

He ripped the paper open. His mouth leaned close to the glinting silver microphone. That was when she felt talons fasten against her heart and squeeze.

"Meera Eastwood!"

Heads turned from left to right.

She felt like someone else, she had to be someone else. This wasn't her life.

Her feet turned to stone. Her face went pale despite the burning heat. Even if she wanted to move, at that moment she couldn't.

The man licked his lips nervously. "Um—Meera! Meera Eastwood!?"

It was Zara's touch that shook her. She turned her face to her friend and wordlessly moved her mouth—nothing was coming out, everything was spinning. _Why couldn't she move? Why couldn't she speak?_

"Meera, it's you."

_No_. It wasn't her. It couldn't be her. She had just slipped past the factory workers. She still had another year before she was forced to break her back in service of the Capitol. She blinked her eyes in shock. _No…no…_

"Meera Eastwood!" the man laughed, "Don't be shy now…"

"Meera…" Zara's voice broke. Tears were welling in her eyes as she grabbed Meera's hand.

Meera's lips quivered, "I—I have to—"

The tears fell down her friend's face.

"Go," she finished.

Her feet started moving before she thought to stop them. Slowly her hand slipped away from Zara's. Children parted the way.

"Ah! Here we are!"

Meera glanced around. The looks she was given were the worst part. Looks of pure pity and horror. Her eyes turned to the screens just in time to see her own face. Paler than normal and jarred, she didn't look herself.

"Come along!" the man beckoned with a wave of the hands as she reached the steps.

Each changing stone felt like it would fall out from under her feet but she kept moving. Meera couldn't tell what was pushing her forward, it wasn't courage or fear…it was something else, something that didn't have a name, at least not one she had known before. Sand stung her skin.

Beside her she listened to the representative clap and laugh. He was enjoying every minute of this. Cameras were pointed at her. She stared into their black lens and furrowed her brow.

Slowly her brain shut down. All she could think of was the day before, standing in line and terrified to be picked for the power station. She remembered feeling guilt for being relieved once she hadn't been chosen. Looking across the crowd of unfamiliar faces and familiar ones alike she knew for a fact they were thinking the same thing.

_Poor girl_, their eyes and expressions screamed, _only 17 and waiting to die_.

Whether it was because of the growing sandstorm or the white noise buzzing in her skull she fell into a deafening daze. The Capitol representative was prattling into the microphone but it sounded like another language. Just a sequence of sounds. She watched as he slithered over to the boy's orb and shoved his hands in. His fingers were more determined this time, more trained.

When he smiled and shouted the name into the microphone Meera parted her lips and squinted. She couldn't hear a thing. Eyes were on her, cameras where on her and all she could hear were distorted thoughts.

Movement in the crowd pulled her gaze to the crowd once more. She didn't see the male Tribute until he was at the steps. Mousey and frail he looked, barely a few inches taller than Meera. She had never seen him before in her life, or perhaps she had and her mind was trying to save her the grief at that single moment.

The representative happily pranced down the remaining steps to grab the boy by the arm and escort him to the platform.

"What a pair!" The Capitol native grabbed their hands and raised them to the sky. His hands felt cold despite the heat, like a snake's. It made her cringe.

"Here! Your Tributes of the 43rd Hunger Games!"

No cheers, not even the faintest of applause, only morose and dirtied faces. In a sudden fit of clarity Meera's eyes frantically scanned the crowd, if only she could see Zara's face one last time...even Mape…maybe then it would give her the strength to fight. Her lips parted. The harder she looked the more the faces muddled together.

Suddenly hands were on her wrists. She sprang forward instinctively only to be dragged back. The ballad of iron doors echoed as she got a mouthful of sandstorm and was pulled into the blinding darkness. The coolness of the shade should have been intoxicating but it only made Meera sweat more. She clawed at air before she realized that the doors had shut and she was gliding along sandstone.


	3. In Motion

_In Motion _

The chair felt strange against Meera's thighs and back. Gooseprickles rose on her bare arms. It was cold on the train and her head ached. Somewhere between the Justice Building and the station she had blacked out. When she awoke she was lying face up on her cabin cot and hearing loud knocks. Confusion set in only a short time before she remembered everything that had happened. The reaping, the way the sand stung as she climbed the steps, and the terrible expression that read across the crowd like a book. Soon after she had slipped out of bed the Capitol representative had come to take her to the dining cart. That was where she was sitting now. She could see her reflection in the silverware. The polished table felt like liquid under her hand. Judging by the landscape moving in a blur beyond the train windows they hadn't traveled very far from District 5 yet, the sandy landscape with scarce trees whizzed by. Her blue eyes twitched to a strange tonic being poured into a crystal glass. Skeptically she ignored the fizzing liquid and grabbed the water.

"We'll have to make up for that little fiasco in the Justice Building. The camera's couldn't get a shot of you both boarding the train because someone decided to faint."

The representative's name was Linares. His Capitol accent was thick and his disdain thicker. Since Meera had taken her seat at the dinner table he had relentlessly made it known that he wasn't here to baby them. Meera didn't know whether to be glad or scared by that threat.

"When we arrive in the Capitol everyone will be waiting to see their Tributes," he sipped the tonic Meera had abstained from, "You will need to be liked. This is very important. We want you to look your best for them. Both of you must make an impression, as representative I can help, and of course so will your stylist team, but you'll need to do the real work."

Meera quickly realized Linares liked to lecture. At first she tried to listen, but his words soon turned to ash and mush. Her dark blues twitched to the little boy who was to be the male Tribute. Faron Blackwell. He was 13. His bug eyes were red from crying and rarely blinked, if it wasn't for the slightest of movements Meera would have thought him dead.

What a pair they were, she sadly thought, both shocked and quiet—they wouldn't stand a chance once the fighting started.

"Eat!" Linares murmured, "This food comes all the way from the Capitol, your first taste of what it means to be a competitor in the Games."

"I don't think they care about the taste of competition, Linares."

The voice was like silk.

Meera turned her head. Faron briefly lifted his eyes from the plate.

Standing like a gazelle was a woman no older than 30. She had cinnamon skin and golden eyes. Linares smacked the grease from his lips with the help of a napkin and scoffed, "Oh it's you. I wondered where you had gone. You were supposed to be there for the reaping."

He said '_you'_ like an insult.

"I'm here now aren't I?"

The representative shot the woman a glare. "Meera, Faron. This is your mentor...Glade Phillips."

Glade slipped into the seat next to Meera and grabbed a slice of bread.

"I was just telling them about what to expect when they arrive tomorrow."

Meera didn't dare look at Glade but from time to time she braved a short glance to the side. There were only a few living Victors in District 5, most had died off or grown too old to mentor. 5 wasn't a District that saw many victories, in fact most of the Victor's Village was abandoned. Glade Phillips had won over a decade ago. She was legendarily known as the girl who was a shadow. Watching her now Meera could see why they called her that, she moved like the wind—quiet and quick. But as Meera recalled she was a deadly shadow too, responsible for at least 6 of the deaths in her arena. The reflection of the candle's flame gleamed in Glade's knife as she cut into the meat.

"Excuse Linares's excitement, this is his first time working for the Hunger Games."

"No excuses are needed."

"Aren't they?"

Although a proud expression remained on Linares's face Meera noticed his whole body slink back. He was afraid of Glade, and Meera didn't blame him.

"Don't expect any honor in the coming weeks," she continued without a thought, "Your representative's job is to make sure you look good, I'm here to make sure you win."

"But we're not going to win."

The table fell silent. All eyes turned to Faron. It was the first thing he had said. His voice was as small as him. When everyone looked he turned beet red and shrugged into himself with sad cow eyes. His words made Meera's stomach churn. Glade on the other hand swallowed a piece of meat and smiled, "I'm not going to tell you you're wrong, Faron. In this game anyone can die."

Meera shyly pushed the hair away from her face, "Is it true that that they train for the arena in other Districts? I heard they train them starting when they're small. I heard they volunteer."

"Of course not—"

"Yes," Glade cut off Linares in mid lie. "Does that frighten you?"

Truthfully it did, but her face didn't show it. "Should it?"

"Yes."

Meera eyes dropped to her half-eaten food.

Again Faron spoke up, his eyes glistening with panic. "Their odds are better than ours."

"It's best not to think about the odds," Glade whispered, "Think about the running, think about surviving, but never think of the odds."

After the food was finished Linares took his leave. Faron seemed relieved when he was gone, but he remained anxious and twitchy. Meera didn't know whether to be annoyed or sympathetic towards him. Perhaps it was all a ploy to make her buy into the frailness. Perhaps he was truly a killer willing to cut her throat the first chance he got. After all this was a game with only one winner. Her lips resentfully pursed as she thought of how cruel it was to live in a world where a teary eyed boy is looked on suspiciously, but Meera wouldn't be careless. She knew without a doubt that there was no one she could trust in the arena but herself. She was her only ally. If it came down to him or her she had to pick her own life. Win or lose she wasn't a fool. She wasn't a hunter or a talker, but she was smart.

Outside the sun had set. Darkness crept through the skies. Candles on the table melted wax onto the white linen tablecloth. Meera could see the reflections of the furniture in the glass, distortions moved in faint lines along the windows. Glade was still eating. She was taking her time to size them up. Meera felt like she was being inspected under a lens, no doubt the sight was hopeless under the scrutiny of a Victor.

After Glade had finished her second plate of food she leaned back and stared.

"I hear you fainted."

Meera cleared her throat and shrugged, "It was hot out there."

Glade's golden eyes were filled with brash understanding. "You better prepare yourself for the time ahead. If you fall in the arena no one will be there to pick you up."

"I won't fall." Meera didn't know if that was a lie or not.

"And you?" She nodded to Faron, "What's your story?"

Faron tucked his hands into his lap and shook his head. He still had baby fat on his face making him look even younger then his 13 years. The compassionate part of Meera hoped that would win him some affection in the Capitol.

"Don't be shy," Glade spat out, "There's no time to be shy. What can you do?"

"I—I can't do anything," his small voice trembled painfully. Meera felt his ache and grimaced.

"No. Everyone has something that can be used in these games. That goes for both of you. You just have to figure out what that is."

Her face darkened. She was sick of hearing lectures. It had only been a few hours since they had left District 5 and all she wanted to do was crawl back into her dirty sweating bed and forget that she ever existed. Right now Zara and the other girls would be mourning. She imagined them all tuck away, weeping in their sheets. Mapes would try to comfort them, but it wouldn't work because even she would know the predatory fate that was waiting to sink it's deathly fangs into Meera.

"Linares said we have to win the crowd," Faron whispered finally.

Glade arched her eyebrows, "Unfortunately he's right."

"We have to get them to like us?"

"Yes. It will be challenging. The Capitol doesn't think much of District 5. I'm sure you both know that more than most…but without the popular vote your chances will decrease substantially."

"I thought this was a game to death," Meera cut in, her eyes had grown angry, "Not a popularity contest."

"As with every game there are different ways to play it, but smiling never hurts."

Her deep blue eyes narrowed. She felt her hands ball into a fist.

"I won't smile for them," she suddenly replied, proud of her words.

"You think all those other Tributes are smiling for the crowd? No. They're smiling to save their own necks."

Faron lifted his lips in a brief smile as if to practice. Meera only glared ahead.

"That's it," she pointed to him and nodded, "Sooner or later you won't even realize you're doing it."

Suddenly Meera couldn't take it anymore. The cold air of the train was foreign, she longed for the harsh heat of District 5. Talk of the arena made her organs tie in knots. Quickly she lifted herself out of the ornate chair and threw her napkin on the table.

"Excuse me," she hissed, barely giving them a glance before walking through the doors and down the narrow hall. She heard Glade continue with her lecture after the door shut, but no amount of advice could have kept Meera there.

As she made her way down the corridor a train whistle pierced her ears. If it weren't for the humming under her shoes, Meera would have easily forgotten they were on a train. It never swayed or jolted, the wheels glided across the rails as if it were floating on water. Just another one of the Capitol's wonderful creations—she cursed it under her breath with contempt, remembering to curse Glade Phillips and Linares too. By the time she got back to her cabin the blood had rushed out of her head and her lips had paled. She pressed her hand against her forehead and curled onto the bed. The sheets were soft and clean. A pitcher of water waited near her pillow. Everything was perfect and accommodating, but the perfection was laced with hints of dread. Color had drained out of Meera's world, everything seemed dulled. With every sip of water she took and every bite of rich food she felt her world crumbling away.

Her auburn hair fell across the bed as she pulled her knees into her chest and clutched the sheets. No matter how tired she felt sleep wouldn't come. She tried the old tricks she would use in the poorhouse on sleepless night. She tried remembering what her parents' faces looked like. They had died so long ago that their features had become blurs in her memories, but on nights like this she would put those features together and take comfort in the faces she created. Except tonight wasn't like all those other nights at the poorhouse—tonight was the prologue to a dark storm.

Past Hunger Games crept into her thoughts. Images of children wildly hunting other children. Whispers of death to remind her what was in store for her.

Growing up in District 5 the Capitol had been a mirage for Meera. It never really existed, just a trick of the light—but not anymore. It wouldn't be long before she would step off the train and into the thick of it. Eyes would stare. The citizens would gawk and cheer either for or against her. She feared the ones that cheered against her and hated the ones that were for her. There was no middle ground anymore.

A tiny voice whispered to her, _Are you afraid?_.It was Zara's voice.

"Yes," she answered aloud, swallowing the sour taste of that word. Somehow Meera wished she had gotten a chance to say it when the question was really asked, but now all she had was that tiny phantom voice in her head and her own cold reply. If she listened hard enough she could still hear the accusing question rumbling over and over again. The echoes bit at her heart and boiled her blood.

_Are you afraid?_


	4. Chase the Light

_Chase the Light _

Two days had past since the reaping and there were still traces of sand and dirt on her white dress—the last pieces of District 5 she would ever see. She watched as a few grains fell to the plush carpet just before the train glided into a tunnel and the whole compartment darkened. Meera felt her ears pop. They were going up in elevation.

"We'll be there any minute now," Linares said, "When we get in, stay close to the windows. The Capitol likes to welcome all the Tributes. The crowd should be big."

Her hands gripped the armrests uneasily. The thought of a crowd made her stomach squirm.

Glade was standing next to the windows. Even in the darkness her copper skin looked like it was glowing. Her eyes twitched to Meera for a long second. Meera returned the stare coldly. The challenge seemed to amuse the old Victor and a cat-like smile stretched to her eyes.

"How big is it?" Faron meekly whispered. His cow eyes shifted to the windows just as they shot out of a tunnel and into the mountains. She had never seen mountains so big before, snowcapped and green, they stretched high into the clouds.

Linares guffawed pretentiously. Apparently he didn't think the question deserved a real response.

"Bigger than you can imagine," was Glade's silken reply.

"I heard they have towers of steel, marble and glass…"

"They're called skyscrapers."

Meera dropped her eyes. In District 5 the tallest buildings were the power stations—chunks of thick metal and wood that were planted in the earth like rocks—nothing like the Capitol.

Darkness submerged the train once more. Her deep blue eyes lifted in terror. She could feel her palms sweating, they stuck to her dress as she adjusted them in her lap.

"Here it comes," Linares whispered. Meera wondered how he could have known that. They were still in the tunnel and she couldn't see a thing. The anticipation mounted terribly. Faron stood up and jumped to the windows, but she was frozen.

Soon light was slicing through the train. She could vaguely feel the wheels turning under her feet. Her the echoes of tracks. When darkness finally lifted her serrated breaths trembled.

Glade crept back into the curtain, her arms crossed. Linares smiled proudly.

Only Faron and Meera's jaws dropped.

It was blinding, foreign, and just as Faron described...towers of glass, marble and steel. The sun glimmered off jagged buildings and a nearby lake. Meera found her feet but didn't dare a step forward. She watched as Faron eagerly pressed himself against the window. The sight was unsettling. _Didn't he remember why they were here? _There was no reason to feel eager, there was nothing waiting for them in the Capitol but death—and still Meera too had a hard time hiding the awe. From afar it looked beautiful, more beautiful than she could have imagined. A city of steel mountains surrounded by mounds of rock and snow. _Of course they control all of Panem. With a city like that who would dare question them_.

As the train moved closer a noise ruptured the silence.

"What's that?" she fearfully asked, her feet shuffled back. She wished the darkness of the tunnels was still hiding her terror, "That noise…"

They were moving like a bullet. Soon Faron had to crane his neck to see the buildings and even then he couldn't. Closer and closer they travel, further into this strange city, and as they did the noise loudened.

"What is it?" she furrowed her brow.

Glade's golden eyes moved to Meera's face, "It's the crowd waiting. They're cheering for your arrival."

Meera gulped. "Why?"

"What do you mean _why_?! Because you're two of their Tributes, of course!" Linares scoffed. Meera could have sworn that his silver-blue skin turned scarlet out of disgust.

"There's so many of them," Faron absently murmured. He didn't wave or smile, only gazed out. Glade too peeked past the curtains, perhaps she was remembering her first time in the Capitol.

"Go on, now," Linares grabbed Meera's shoulders. Her feet tried to scramble backward but he was pushing too hard. She started moving before she could stop it. "Don't be shy. Smile and wave. They'll love you if you do."

"I won't," she whispered it more for herself than anyone else.

"Oh don't be shy."

His hands were still on her when she got to the windows. Her lips shook. There were more people waiting on the sides of the street than in the whole of District 5. Some waved, others cheered. There were little boys with play swords and aging women with strangely warped faces. All of them were different and yet to Meera they each had the same hungry expression. Linares gave her a shake, urging her to do something besides gape, but she could barely lift her arm in a wave let alone her lips in a smile.

"She's overwhelmed, let her go," Glade said.

"They're only people, just like you and me. No reason to be afraid." He hissed the words in Meera's ear. It made her cringe. "Don't be afraid."

But they weren't like her, none of them were. She would never fall in line with a crowd of people and cheer for death. She would never watch children battle for fun and laugh with glee as someone was crowned Victor of nothing. This wasn't her world, she had left that behind the moment they dragged her on the train.

Silently she shook her head. Beside her Faron was waving, it repulsed her how willing he was to smile for them. Only a little boy and he was better at charming the crowd than her.

"That's enough," Glade shoved Linares away and glared, "Do you want her drained before the opening ceremonies? She's barely been in the Capitol for two seconds."

Meera gasped as Glade put her arm around her shoulders and started walking through the compartment, "Come on, we'll be stopping soon. Faron, come along!"

For the first time Meera was thankful for Glade. Maybe she had misjudged her mentor. The way she held her was nurturing. Even her stern looks felt protective. When she looked back Linares was mumbling something under his breath.

"He's angry," Meera whispered.

Glade tightened her jaw, "Let him be. He's a fool."

"There were so many people."  
"Yes. I know."

The door shut behind them. Faron was a few steps away, but he didn't say a word.

"You can be scared but don't let them see it. You hear me? Never show how afraid you are. You must wave and smile."

"I can't."

"If they hate you—"

"But I'm not fighting _them_."

"No," Glade agreed, "You aren't."

Train doors slid open sending a breeze of cool mountain air surging past Meera's body. Her deep auburn hair wildly blew around her face as the impact of the applause collapsed into her. She felt Glade drop her arm, saw Faron following a line of peacekeepers that were motioning towards a car. Linares was there too, coaxing all of them forward. The cheers lasted all throughout their car ride. Meera found herself leaning close to the windows. Her eyes gaze up in astonishment at advertisements and marble constructs. They were showing recaps of the reapings, soon there would be much more to film than reapings and arrivals—soon the games would begin. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

"We're one of the last to arrive in the Capitol," Linares was holding a panel. His fingers slide across it as he read the incoming reports, "Looks like there's only District 12 still in transit."

"The Opening Ceremonies?" Glade quickly inquired.

"Tonight. I've been in contact with the stylist team. They're meeting us in the Remake Center."

"Remake Center?" Meera's eyes were wide in shock.

"You didn't actually think you'd enter the ceremonies dressed like _that_ did you?"

Her eyes dropped to her dress, it was torn near the hem and dirty. The Opening Ceremonies were a time for the Tributes to wear something that introduced their District's main economy. For District 5 it was electricity. Most Tributes were close to naked, only the Career Districts were the ones with the intricate costumes. Meera raked her teeth across her lower lip as she tried to recall last years Opening Ceremonies—when she was watching them on the screens in the common areas of 5 it felt unreal, in a few hours she would discover just how real it was.

Arriving in the Remake Center was like entering another world. White glossy walls mirrored white sterile floors. Seats that resembled torture devices were positioned near one side of the room while windows covered the other side. The view from the room was the most surprising part of it all. Meera hadn't realized how high they were till she stared out and saw the ant-sized people swarming around in celebration. Her eyes took in the view. She wondered how many past Tributes stood where she was and thought of jumping.

Somewhere between the car and the room Glade and Faron had disappeared. Now Meera was alone with Linares. His cold eyes checked the time with boredom. An hour must have past before the door opened.

She spun around and drew back. Three people entered, each odder than the next.

"Finally," Linares whispered, "We've been waiting. Meera, come here…"

She allowed her representative to grab her wrist and pull her forward for inspections and introductions.

"This will be your team. Your makeup artist Benedict. Genero your hairstylist. And finally Alida, your wardrobe designer."

Meera's lips parted as she studied each of them.

Benedict was a stout man with a plump stomach and unnaturally large eyes. Red tattoos covered half his face, Meera silently questioned if they also covered half his body. Genero was Benedict's opposite in almost ever respect. He was skeleton thin with obsidian chips for eyes and a strange yellow hue covered his eyelids and lips.

"She's prettier than I expected," Benedict observed, "A little pale for my taste."

Then Alida stepped forward. She was one of the most beautiful women Meera had ever seen, though a coldness shined from her eyes. Her hair was long and dark, her outfit stiff and black. Violet makeup covered her eyelashes. Her heels echoed through the room as she moved closer.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Meera Eastwood."

When she stretched out her hand Meera stepped back instinctively. Back in District 5 she had been confident but here in the Capitol she felt lost. Linares grunted in disapproval.

"You don't want to shake my hand?"

"No."

Benedict and Genero laughed in harmony. "She's a prickly one," Genero mused.

Alida dropped her hand and smiled glancing to Linares, "We can take it from here, you should tend to the other one. I heard from Kye that wild beast of a mentor is putting up a fuss."

_Glade. _

Meera rubbed her lips together. She could hear the disregard in Alida's voice. She hated dealing with a District like 5.

"She's been making a fuss since we left the District…" Linares mumbled, quickly skirted the windows before he took his leave.

Now completely alone she felt her fingers tremble. All eyes studied her. She hunched her head as Alida circled her in reserve. From time to time she would grab the fabric of Meera's white dress and laugh to herself.

"They don't have much when it comes to fabric in District 5 I see."

"Our resource is electricity."

"Yes. Well, it's a pity you didn't wear light bulbs the first time we met, I would have been far more impressed."

Meera's face darkened with anger. Unlike the Capitol District 5 didn't have the luxury of nice clothing, even food was a rarity. The designer noticed the expression on her face and narrowed her eyes.

"Have I insulted you?"

Meera tilted her head up, the conversation was enough to make her blood boil. "If you want me to apologize for being poor, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"You're a strange girl, aren't you? You seem shy and docile, but you aren't. The other Tributes will be shocked when it comes to the arena."

"Now, now, Alida…she's just a girl. She doesn't know how lucky she is," Genero cut in.

Meera shot him a glare, her eyes filled with fire. _Lucky_. Is that what these Capitolites thought she was?

"Alida, we only have a few short hours for preparations," out of the three Benedict seemed the most nervous. His huge eyes darted from face to face. Sweat formed on his brow.

"Right," she said it without looking away from Meera, "Take off your dress. Benedict, draw a bath. I'll see to the outfit, when I come back make sure she's ready for the ceremonies. We're on a schedule."

Water rushed from a golden faucet into a large marble bath. Meera stepped forward, gently pulling the straps of her dress off her shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. She wasn't ashamed of being naked. All her life she had showered in front of other people, she never had the luxury of her own bath. Grains of sand grated between her toes as she slipped off her sandals and felt the cold marble below. Genero hummed a tune as he undid her hair.

The water was hot. Steam and aromas rose from the bath. Dirt swirled away from her body and hair. She had to gasp for breaths a few time as the hairstylist dunked her under and rubbed strange lotions into her hair and skin. Some stung, others soothed. She had never been so thoroughly cleaned in all her life.

"What a brilliant color, have you ever seen such beautiful hair, Benedict?"

Benedict rubbed his plump stomach and sorted through equipment. "Beautiful, Genero," he agreed.

"Hair like this is enough to shock the Capitol into love."

Her eyes lifted to Genero's face. He looked so happy. She felt his hands squeeze the water out of her strands. It was hard to imagine how anyone could be so happy at a time like this. The shock of being reaped and transported to the Capitol was starting to wear off. Modest confidence was coming back, but it was hard to keep the fear at bay. She knew she didn't stand a chance in the arena, but she also knew she needed to fight. From here on out she would fight, but she wouldn't do it by romancing the crowd. In fact the longer she stared at Genero's smile the more she understood how much she didn't want to please the Capitol crowds. _Let them hate me_, she thought, _I won't die a groveling actress._ Glade had told her to smile, told her she needed to, but that wasn't true. Smiles wouldn't save her from the arena. She would save herself.

Soon after the bath, Genero proceeded to dry her off and escort her to one of the chairs. Benedict was holding a jar of something thick and steaming.

"What's that?" she asked as he coated it on her legs.

"This may sting a bit."

_Ri-i-i-p! _

Her eyes widened. Her teeth grated together.

After they were done with her legs they moved onto her eyebrows. By then she had grown used to the stinging, but it was still shocking every time Benedict pulled and smiled with approval. Later, when they had waxed her entire body into silky smoothness, she dropped her hands to her legs feeling the softness under her fingertips. It felt strange.

"For the next hour don't move," Benedict commanded, propping the seat up so her back was stiffly straight.

"What are you going to—"

"Ah, ah," he pressed his finger against her lips and arched his eyebrows, "No speaking. We'll work faster then."

Normally she would have finished her sentence out of spite but the promise of this being over sooner rather than later was enough to shut her up. She watched their hands work. Genero was pulling on her hair, drying it with a device, while Benedict began mixing palettes and colors together.

She winced as strands of hair were pulled back and combed through and fluttered her eyes every time Benedict dabbed and coated her eyelids with various colors.

Evening waited beyond the windows. The moon was climbing into the sky. Time was moving faster and faster.

"Alida will be pleased I think."

Meera flicked her eyes around. The way they were gazing at her was unnerving. They looked engrossed in the work they had done. Benedict dabbed something near the corner of her eyes as a finishing touch.

"There, that does it…Genero, see if she's in the hallway. Perhaps she didn't want to interrupt our work."

"Of course, Benedict."

Meera watched him disappear.

"You look nervous."

"Do I?" she whispered, noticing his large eyes boring into her.

"Yes. You do."

The door opened back up, Genero was joined by Alida. Meera had to hold back a scornful look as the designer approached.

"You can stand," she said it like an order.

Meera clutched her robe as she stepped onto the floor and waited.

"Yes…" she whispered, "That's just what we planned. Well, now…are you ready to see your outfit, Meera?"

"Is it made of light bulbs?" She quipped without a hint of amusement.

A sly smile appeared on Alida's face, "Not exactly."

An hour later, Meera Eastwood was standing in the strangest thing she had ever worn in her life. A periwinkle blue dress with a low neckline and tight bodice grasped her torso and breasts...but that wasn't the strange part. Flowing in wisps of glowing light was the skirt of the dress—it was sheer and light, sinuous as the wind. The blue and orange lights expelled glowing warmth all around her. Genero had pulled her auburn hair into a high ponytail and Benedict had painted her eyes with neon colors that seemed to have a phosphorescence of its own. Violet, blue and orange neon made her deep blue eyes stand out, and her lips were dabbed with a pale nude color that somehow made her cheekbones look more prominent.

"She's glowing!" Genero joked, nudging Benedict who let out a high-pitched laugh.

"Splendid creation, Alida, splendid."

"Just a little trick to stir the crowd," she smiled in appreciation, "It absorbs the lights around and reflects it back, making it look like liquid electricity."

Meera blinked her eyes slowly. Her reflection looked like someone else's. Her fingers traced the glowing fabric of the dress and delicate work of the makeup. The swirls of ephemeral light didn't blot out her face or body—in fact they somehow highlighted it.

"Alright, it's time. Meera, are you ready?"

She turned to the side in silence. _No_, she thought, _I'll never be ready_. But she couldn't say those words aloud. She knew she couldn't.

The bottom levels of the Remake Center were swarming with people. Meera was escorted to a stable labeled 5. Over the edges of her station she could see the first glimpses of other Tributes. The sight ate at her nerves. Chariots were lining up for each District, the two white horses pulling 5's stirred as Meera was loaded onto theirs. Immediately Alida started to adjust the draping of Meera's dress.

Faron appeared just as the countdown to the opening ceremonies began. He was dressed in the same color as Meera, a suit of light blue…small wisps of the suit glowed, but it was his cape that was the real eye-catcher. He gave Meera an anxious look as he stepped up. He was so tiny and underfed, even in the beauty of his costume he looked frail.

Darkness fell. Only 30 seconds before the doors opened.

"Are you scared?" He suddenly whispered. Meera wondered if he was going to throw up.

She straightened her back and stared ahead, determined and suddenly cold, "No. Not of this. Not anymore."

"I'm terrified."

She felt pity, but something held her back from reassuring him. She couldn't bring herself to. In a few days they would be thrown into the arena where they would be all alone. If she broke now, if she allowed herself to care for him just a little, then it would only make it harder.

"They're only people," she said the words Linares had used on her. Faron sensed her coldness and fell silent. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that his hands were shaking.

It could have been minutes or seconds before the music began but when it did the horses tensed with knowing. Meera pressed her lips together gently. Slowly the doors opened. The ceremony was starting.

First District 1 pulled forward. The sight of them made her eyes widen. District 2 was even worse. Now she understood why they were called the Career Districts. Both Tributes were healthy and strong. The Capitol crowds broke apart in wonder as they exited into the City Circle. Down the side of the way images of the Tributes were moving along screens. It took Meera a moment to remember herself when it was 5's turn.

Her eyes focused on the chariot ahead as they began moving. Her dress blew in the wind behind the rolling wheels—swimming light and neon in the growing darkness. Suddenly the crowd began hooting and screaming. She refused a smile. Her face remained stoic and hard, but Faron quickly grinned, his hand raised in a stale wave. How strange they must have seemed, she thought, they didn't look like a team at all…but then again they weren't one.

"Meera!" Someone in the crowd called.

She twitched her eyes to the mass of people. They were calling her name. Many of them were staring at their glowing costumes and smiling in wonder, others were clapping and pointing to other Tributes. Her breathing was uneven as her eyes lifted to the nearest screen. She could see herself in that screen, it looked like a river of light was streaming behind their chariot—it looked beautiful.

"Meera!" she heard once more, but then other names echoed down to the chariots. Names she had never heard.

"Rillian!"

"Berris!"

"Dawn!"

Names of other tributes. Names of people that she would come face to face with in a few days—she steadied her nerves and looked ahead once more.

Soon all twelve chariots were out and rolling in a line.

It wasn't long before they had finished the ceremonial procession. The President's mansion was coming into view, a large marble house decorated in columns and steps. All chariots were lining up in a row. Meera carefully peered from left to right as they jolted to a stop.

Slowly, her eyes lifted above the steps to a balcony. President Tiberius Vetranio Hart was an aging man, but he still had the look of youth in his eyes. His flaxen hair was starting to turn grey, and deep cruel wrinkles creased his brow and lips. He waved the crowd into silence as he stepped out onto his balcony and began his speech.

Down the line Meera caught sight of one of the Careers' chariots. She could feel the blood coursing through her veins to her cheeks. The female Tribute from District 2 was peering at her threateningly. The girl's narrow face was full of amusement and irony that Meera couldn't understand. Even after she looked away Meera knew that the girl was staring. No doubt their costumes were shocking enough to mark District 5 as targets.

_Don't let them see how afraid you are_, she told herself, _don't_.

She forced her eyes to stay on the balcony, forced herself to stay calm and steady.

When the anthem finally started up again the chariots moved. The final circle was made before each chariot disappeared into the Training Center and away from the cameras. Meera gave a solemn glance to the crowd just before the doors swallowed them, they were still cheering long after the 12th chariot had vanished.


	5. We Cross Into Oblivion

_We Cross Into Oblivion _

Nightmares tangled her sleep. Hollow corpses screamed for violence. Even Zara was there—screaming, all of them were screaming, all were dead. The shrieks gathered like battered clouds before a squall, the only difference was that when it poured in her nightmares it wasn't rain…it was blood.

Light was coming in through the wisps of silk curtains as her eyelids parted. Daybreak.

She sat up in fright, her whole body shaking. Sweat was trickling down her back and chest. It took few pounding heartbeats to remember where she was and why. Everything fell into place, even the things she wished had been lost to forgetfulness. As recognition settled she peered around.

Her room looked much bigger in the daylight. There was a walk-in closet only accessible through a strange panel near the door, thick carpet that sank under her feet each time she walked, and enough space to house all 24 tributes. Mapes' orphanage was crammed and sweating, this was a palace compared to that. Nevertheless, the delicacies weren't enough to make Meera forget the truth. She was confined—even though golden wallpaper replaced bars there was no denying that fact. The shower was too warm, the soaps too fragrant. Everything was too much, even the unnaturally cool air that blew out of strange vents near the ceiling. She yearned for the simplicity of District 5. It may have been a desolate wasteland but it was familiar.

A thick glob of shampoo poured onto her hair the moment she entered the shower. Water shot out of the walls and a large faucet above. A few times she had gasp for air, afraid that somehow she would drown. _Wouldn't that be fitting, _she thought, _a tribute that dies before they even make it to the arena, all from an overactive shower_. She spat a mouthful of water out and pulled her hair away from her face. Meera was almost 90% sure this was a torture device of some kind. When the shower finally turned off she breathed a sigh of relief and struggled through the steam. Water dripped on the marble floor, pooling under her feet wherever she moved. Strands of drenched hair stuck to her skin.

A dispenser offered creams and moisturizers that she frowned at.

"Goddamn, Capitol," she muttered angrily.

By the time she returned to her bedroom an outfit had been laid out on the bed. The door was cracked open. She could hear voices echoing through the sliver. Benedict and Genero's laughter suddenly bellowed, followed by giggles. Meera grimaced, she wanted to wait them out but her stomach was grumbling with hunger. Quickly making up her mind she grabbed the black pants and blue shirt. Her hair was still damp by the time she wandered into the communal area.

There were strange glass sculptures and fine furniture filling the halls and rooms. The night before these objects weren't noticeable. It had been so dark and she had been so tired, but now they stuck out. Her eyes darted around in disbelief. One in particular caught her eye: a marble sculpture of a naked fighter wrestling some creature that looked both half bull and half man, water streamed out the bull's nostrils into a shallow pool below.

"There she is," Benedict giggled, "We wondered when you would get up. Didn't we, Genero?"

"Yes, Benedict, we did."

Her gaze shifted from the spitting fountain to a large glass table in the center of the room. It was covered with all sorts of foods. Glade was hacking away at a piece of bread, normally she looked unpleasant but this morning was particularly bad. Linares was babbling like the rest of the Capitolites. Faron silently stared at his food. He looked better than he had during the chariot ride.

"Don't be shy, Meera. Come sit," Linares delicately dabbed some jam away from his silver lips.

Her eyes skeptically wandered around the table. _So much food_. It could have fed her friends back home for weeks. Suddenly she wasn't hungry anymore.

"This is all for us?"

"Of course! Silly girl!" Laughter erupted once more.

Her eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and pulled out the seat. The first bite made her want to throw up. She wasn't used to being fed every few hours. She was lucky if they had a meal everyday back home. There was honeyed ham and steaming rolls, butter, and even fruit—that was something Meera gazed at shockingly. Alida caught her gawking.

"Never seen grapes before?" Her violet trimmed eyes judgingly stared.

"We don't get much fruit in District 5."

"Oh? How strange. You must be so glad to be here. We have everything here."

"Yes, yes. Now Meera if you want anything else you can have an Avox bring it…" Linares was stuffing his mouth with anything he could get his painted fingers on.

She noticed Faron was nibbling on a strange piece of fruit Benedict was calling a blackberry. It stained his lips purple.

Next her blue eyes moved to Glade. She twirled the knife in her hands like a strand of hair. It never fell, even when she switched fingers. Their mentor reminded Meera of some caged animal. She always looked like she was waiting to pounce, it was obvious Glade hated being in the Capitol almost as much as Meera. Every time one of the Capitolites spoke she rolled her eyes and stabbed her food.

"When do we begin training?" Faron's little voice said.

"Excited to get in there, eh?" Linares cheerily asked, "Today, of course. Training begins after breakfast. I'm sure Glade will fill you in on all that. It will be splendid."

_Splendid_? This team was verging on inhuman. Since her reaping Meera had been told how lucky she was for this opportunity to compete. Opportunity, that was enough to make her laugh. The Capitol was so careful with their words, without a doubt they knew what a lost cause District 5 was.

"If the opening ceremonies were any indication of how well these games are going to go then we're on the right track. Alida that was a wondrous trick you pulled!"

"It received amazing reviews on the recaps, did you see?"

"Beautiful!"

It was sickening to here them speak.

"The arena isn't a beauty pageant," Glade's voice could cut. Meera saw the wild glint in her eyes. Though the rest of the table tried to ignore her words the conversation soon dissolved into silence.

After breakfast ended many of District 5's team left. Alida stayed behind with Linares, each was busy complimenting the other and vainly waiting to receive praise. Their voices turned to low mutters at the far end of the table.

"We should go," Meera's attention shifted away from the quiet whispers to her mentor, "Both of you will want to get as much training in as you can before the arena."

Glade rose from the table like a breeze and nodded. Faron was the first to follow, Meera soon after. Occasionally she turned back to see Linares and Alida laughing and nudging each other, each time they whispered it stung her ears.

Three days were spent in training. Three days of empty interactions with the other tributes before the Gamemakers judged and awarded a score to each opponent. Meera suppressed another wave of nausea as they entered the elevator. The thought of meeting the other tributes didn't sit well with her.

"I can train you but I'm not allowed in the room. Only tributes are allowed inside. It's important that you listen to me, follow my advice. Do you both understand?"

Faron answered yes immediately but Meera simply stared at her distorted reflection in the elevator doors.

"Have either of you thought about skills?"

"I'm quiet," Faron offered.

"Any experience with tools, weapons…anything?"

He shook his head miserably.

"That's alright, quiet is good. The other tributes won't know what to expect. And you, Meera?"

She adjusted her posture and glanced to the changing numbers, "I've never held a weapon if that's what you're asking."

"It's important to think. What can you do?"

Her eyes dropped. For the very first time Meera forced herself to think critically about what she had to offer in the arena. The answers weren't what she would call great. "I'm a good climber. Back in the orphanage I could scale the roofs nearby. And if I need to run, I can run fast."

Glade nodded sternly, "Good. Now, what I'm about to tell you is very important, got it?"

She waited but there were no replies.

"When you're in training don't show off. Whatever skills you have, hide them. If you reveal all your secrets your opponents will know what to expect and they'll use them against you."

"How are we supposed to train if we can't even practice what we're good at?" Meera challenged.

"There are only so many ways you can practice climbing and running, Meera. My suggestion to both of you is to work on weapon combat. And another thing, Linares and Alida…all them may be fools but they know what they're doing. You need the public to want you. They can help you with that. Listen and watch."

The doors opened directly onto the gymnasium—a large cavern of a room. Mats covered the floors. Weapons gleamed on the walls. There were stations filling the emptiness. Already some of the tributes had congregated.

"This is where I leave you two," Glade pushed both Faron and Meera out, "Good luck and remember what I said."

Almost immediately out of the gates someone grabbed Meera and pinned a 5 to her shirt. Nearby she noticed Faron growing paler and paler, the sight of the other tributes had him scared. Secretly Meera couldn't judge Faron for that, she too felt the intimidation welting up in her stomach. She may have been older, she was lucky in that regard, but _did age really matter in a game like this?_ Meera wasn't be sure.

Silence fell as a man with arms the size of trees clapped his hands and waved all tributes to the center of the room. He went over the rules one by one. Most were obvious, others made Meera's mouth grow drier and drier. Experts stood at each station, their faces as hard as the cement walls surrounding them. Weapons waited to be wielded, ropes to be climbed.

"One final rule," the block-man boomed, "You can freely move around stations but do not antagonize other tributes. No fighting. Now, let's get started."

The congregation broke apart instantly. Meera started assessing each of the tributes. It was her first time to see them this close with no chariots or distance between them and it was petrifying. Most tributes were like her, though they came in varied shapes, colors and sizes they were all underfed and seemingly sad. But then her eyes landed on the Careers. Each was older and stronger than the next.

The female tribute from District 2 was in the Career huddle. Her sly eyes caught sight of Meera. Her mouth drew up in a thin line of amusement. Near the female tribute's side stood the others. Both tributes from District 1 had golden hair. Berris Adams and Dawn Wallace. Meera pulled some rope in a loop as she stared at them. They were tall, healthy, and fierce. Berris had golden skin to match his hair and handled a spear like it was part of his body. Dawn stayed close to her partner and slashed at the air with a sword.

The male tribute from District 2, Rillian Lewis, was just as healthy. He was taller than Berris with thinner muscles but somehow he seemed stronger. His hair was black and shaggy, his skin fair, and his eyes looked like velvet chocolate. In a way he scared Meera the most. He was quieter than the rest, his eyes wandered around the room with caution. Unlike the other Careers he didn't go to the weapons first, his fingers tapped on the faunal and floral identification panel.

She stared for a long while at him. He got nearly every one right and, was it her imagination or did he actually seem bored by the whole procedure? He barely gave a picture a glance before identifying it correctly. A picture of a strange looking fruit came up when he paused. His hands froze too. Suddenly he peered to Meera. He had felt her gaze. She quickly dropped her eyes to the rope in her hand, but Rillian was still watching her when she looked back up. It wasn't the same way the District 2 female had looked at her—he scanned Meera up and down a few times before looking back to the screen. There was something odd in that gaze. A chill quaked her bones as she tried to shake it.

After tying a few knots and a failed attempt at making a trap Meera wandered to the wall of weapons. _Practice_, Glade had said. She grimaced at the wall. Each one looked more overwhelming than the next. Along the sides a few of the tributes were sitting like skeletons—probably realizing there was no point in practicing for death. She caught the eyes of one. An olive skinned tribute from District 10. His sunken eyes were hard to look away from.

"It's not a museum."

The voice was sarcastic and surprisingly sweet. Meera parted her lips as she identified the source. The female from District 2.

She clenched her jaw and turned back to the weapons thinking maybe if she remained impassive the girl would disappear. But an arrogant laugh soon permeated the air around the tribute as she stepped closer and crossed her arms. She had a few good inches on Meera, but then again so did most of the tributes over the age of 15.

"Do you even know how to pick one up? It's not hard, here I'll give you a tip…you use your hands."

If Meera had been back home and this girl had tried anything she would of fought back. The first time she had met Zara a group of girls were bullying her. Meera cut in and knocked one's teeth out. She was small but that didn't mean she was weak. That wasn't a possibility right now. Glade's words whispered to her. She grated her teeth together and shot District 2 a cold stare.

"Go on then, let's see what you got."

"Livia!"

The girl didn't look away, but Meera did. She peered around to see Rillian Lewis, District 2, watching them.

"Come here."

Her eyes returned to the Livia.

"_Go on, then_," Meera whispered quietly, mimicking the tone the girl had used on her.

That seemed to amuse the girl even more, "Don't hurt yourself, 5. There aren't pretty glowing dresses in the arena."

She pushed by and knocked Meera to the side. Her strides were long and firm. The air blew out of Meera's lungs as she hit the wall. In embarrassment she pulled on her shirt, hearing the girl laugh as she walked away.

"It's a shame one of them's going to win," a rattled voice whispered. Meera turned. It was the olive-skinned boy from District 10. He licked his lips slowly.

She stared at him in surprise for a second but the anger was still there, boiling over.

"Yea, well, no one's won yet," she coldly shot back grabbing a knife before walking away.

Three days passed by faster than Meera could keep track of. Her muscles were sore, and her head ached. Each day her eyes would lift to the Gamemakers' vewing box. It looked dim behind the glass but she knew they were watching. Not surprisingly it was hard for her to pick up working a weapon. It didn't matter if it was a knife, sword, bow, or spear. Each time she sparred with one of the available trainers she would lose the match, sending the Careers into a fit of laughter—all except Rillian—he never seemed to laugh or even smile. By day two she gave up on weapons altogether and focused her attention on the other stations. Identification was another obstacle. In District 5 the vegetation was a little lackluster. If there was a guide on different sands and desert plants Meera could have written it, but most focused on plants and flowers she'd never heard of. Every time she shuffled through the images the blueberries looked exactly like the nightlock berries. Her muscles tensed each time the word _FAIL_ popped up on the screen. A mistake like that in the arena would kill her.

Meals in between training became more and more edgy. It surprised Meera how fast the conversations turned to strategies and techniques for the arena. Most of the time it was Glade talking. One by one the stylist team stopped showing up. Only Linares was left towards the end of the training days, always with a snide remark to make. Though Faron often looked at Meera, even followed her around in the training room, she ignored him the best she could. At meals she barely eyed him and when he started shadowing her she would find other ways to scare the boy away. His sad cow eyes were a constant reminder to Meera how hopeless they both were.

On the third day the testing started. Moving in numerical order by Districts, boys first and girls second, they pulled each tribute into the training room alone. Meera and Faron sat side by side on the benches outside. The tall windows let in blinding light. Outside the crowd was celebrating, other than that it was total silence.

Times Passed. For a moment the quiet was interrupted by the doors swinging open. Dawn Wallace proudly walked out. Her face beaming with satisfaction.

By Meera's calculations the trials weren't long. Each time a tribute entered they left within 15 minutes. Her hands rubbed together nervously at the thought of standing in front of all the Gamemakers.

Soon District 2 went.

When Rillian Lewis walked by a tall shadow fell over Meera and Faron. He could have been a statue the way he kept his emotions hidden. Faron inched back.

"I saw him take down two of the trainers yesterday in hand-to-hand combat," he whispered.

Meera felt her heart clench. "So what?"

"Can you imagine what he'll be able to do when it's a real fight?"

Rillian's silhouette disappeared down the hall, she swallowed hard. The only reply she could think of wasn't appropriate to say aloud. _I'll be dead before I make it out of the cornucopia, so what does it matter?_

Finally came District 5. Faron was up first. He marched into the room slowly. When the door shut behind him Meera finally looked up. There wasn't much the little boy could do but she hoped they gave him a good assessment. It would be wrong to hope for the alternative.

When the 15 minutes ended a razor voice called her name and District. Suddenly she felt her knees knocking together. Each step was a challenge. The doors opened and shut automatically. It was strange to be in the training gymnasium alone. Above, the glass of the Gamemakers' box was opened, suddenly it looked more like a balcony than a viewing room. All the Gamemakers sat with glasses of champagne and wine. Some feasted on food while others chatted. As Meera entered the center of the room and looked up they quieted. She wondered if it was normal to say something but when her lips wouldn't make any noise she gave up and cleared her throat.

She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. Anxiously she glanced around. There were so many choices, so many ways she could fail. Close by an obstacle course was set up. She eyed it disparagingly. _Better than nothing_, she thought.

"Any time, Miss Eastwood," one of the Gamemakers called down.

She gritted her teeth together. It made her angry how rushed this was. Her life could depend on the score they'd award her and she only had 15 minutes to prove herself.

Without looking up and sudden decisiveness she grabbed a knife and slid it under her belt making sure the hilt caught on the fine leather. She rubbed her fingers together in concentration and tightened her lips. Meera tried imagining District 5, running along the roofs and down the gutters near the lake.

_Just like home_, she told herself, _just pretend you're home_.

Then, with one final breath, she started running. Her feet shuffled through the course spryly. Only once did her foot catch but the stumble was indistinct. Figures and obstacles along the course began popping up unexpectedly. She dodged all of them. Whether it was spinning to the left, the right, or sliding under she was able to manage. Then came the wall. Her hands and feet strangled the rope as she climbed the small rock fortress and threw her body over. As her feet hit the ground she looked to the ending target, a rubber dummy with markings on all the vital areas waited. She grabbed the knife at her belt. A doubtful groan passed her lips as she threw the dagger out. It flipped through the air. She could have sworn she heard the metal sing. Finally with a thud the blade hit the dull plastic. It almost missed the dummy completely but as luck would have it the pointy end sank deep into the shoulder sending the figure wobbling for a few brief seconds.

In disbelief at her lucky aim she froze for a second.

_Confidence_, she had to remind herself, but it was hard to comprehend how she hit the target in the first place. _Get up, dammit, just get up_.

Heavy breaths blew from her lungs. Wide-eyed with surprise she climbed to her feet and turned to the balcony.

"Thank you, Miss Eastwood," the head Gamemaker was jotting notes into one of his panels. None of them looked impressed. "That will be all."

She bowed clumsily and grimaced. There was nothing in their expressions that gave a hint to how well she did.

Just before Meera exited she turned back to the dummy, the knife still planted in the shoulder. She couldn't believe it. By most standards it was a terrible hit, but not to her. Some unknowable pride swept over her, reminding her that maybe there was a chance. Then, painful and abrupt, she remembered one true and gruesome fact. The door shut behind her with a crash. _Soon there would be more than dummies to fight, stupid girl, and they won't be standing still. They'll tear you apart_.

Her eyes dropped slowly. A ragged voice broke through the hidden speakers. The next tribute had been summoned.


	6. These Wounds Are Discerning

_These Wounds Are Discerning_

The marble tiles felt like ice underneath Meera's feet. All day she had been thinking about her testing session. Her heart hammered every time Meera wondered what score she would be awarded. No doubt it would be low.

She found herself reworking the obstacle course in her head, pointing out the obvious flaws and wishing that her aim were much better when the knife had haphazardly flown through the air. All through dinner they had questioned her about the session, each time she managed a shrug and silent drop of the eyes. Though Faron tried to keep a positive stance on his 15 minutes with the Gamemakers she could tell he was fibbing—if she did mediocre in her trials, then he didn't stand a chance.

The day had come and gone. Now they waited. Each person stared at the screen. Alida was elegantly draped over a chair near Linares. Faron sat on his hands at the far end of the sofa, near his stylist Kye. Glade paced. She was the most nervous of the bunch. _Maybe even more nervous than me_, Meera thought.

Without sponsors the arena would be hard, but Meera wasn't the sort to lean on someone else's shoulders. Sponsors or no she was sure that death was waiting just around the bend. A few giveaways during her dance with death wouldn't stop that—only slow it down.

She bit at her lip.

Already they were on District 3.

The Careers' scores all landed between the 8 to 10 range. That didn't surprise her, not after the things she had witnessed in training.

"Alright," Linares whispered it just as District 4 scores finished.

The mood in the room shifted with intensity. It suddenly felt like everyone was leaning towards the screen. Not Meera though. She pulled her legs onto the couch and looked away.

First came the picture. Then the score.

She waited silently. Instead of eyeing the screen she peered to Glade. That was the indicator. That would be Meera's way of knowing how good her chances were. She could see the colors of the screen flashing across the mentor's skin. For a heartbeat it looked like Glade was angry, but then her eyes brightened.

"Woah-ho!" Alida cheered drunkenly, clapping her hands together like a fool.

"Seven! Better than I expected!" Linares shouted in astonishment.

Crimson flushed Meera's cheeks. She twitched her eyes to the screen in disbelief. Sure enough the number seven was below her name and picture in big bold lettering. It wasn't great but it was better than she'd hoped for.

"I almost missed my target though. I stumble a few times on the course."

"They must have been impressed with your agility," Glade nodded to her in approval, "Good job."

"Not a ten, of course, but then again we weren't expecting even a six…." Linares arrogantly gulped some champagne and giggled.

Despite his callous attitude Meera leaned back and sighed. It was a small relief, but it wasn't enough to squash the always-present fear. They had liked her speed and reflexes, but a person could only run so far when it came to the arena. Could she manage to win just by hiding and moving like a shadow? Meera Eastwood and victor—the two didn't seem synonymous, not remotely. The Gamemakers had given her odds she didn't deserve. She braided her fingers together and stared at her whitened knuckles. The truth was so obvious she didn't want to even think it. _Runners don't win games, fighters do._

Faron's turn was up next. His picture made him look even smaller than he was in real life, as if that were possible. Meera swallowed hard as she heard the number being announced, blood pull away from her face. The room fell silent.

A four.

She dropped her eyes.

Everyone was speechless. Even Linares couldn't come up with a quick response.

"It's not bad. We can work with a four," he spastically nodded, as if that would make his words more comforting.

"You'll wow them during the interviews, Faron. Don't you worry," Glade tried.

He clasped his hands together in panic. Meera saw it right then, a flash of terror in his eyes. They filled with tears just before he bolted to his feet and rushed out of the room.

_Only 13 years old_, she thought, _it isn't right_.

"I'll try to calm him down," Kye whispered.

Unspoken sadness replaced the empty space. Meera was surprised to see that even Alida and Linares had been shocked into reserve. Everything else before this had been child's play. The pageant-like costumes and the leisurely training were just the prologues. Now they had numbers pinned on them. They weren't from a grand District. They were from 5—much could be said about the poverty and mistreatment of the other outlying Districts, but 5 was a different matter entirely. Meera saw it on the faces of her team. Tributes from their District needed good scores otherwise they'd fall into the background. A mediocre to high score would have meant a lot for a small tribute like Faron. She grappled with her own guilt. A part of her wished there were a way to help, another part knew she couldn't.

"It's only a number," Alida finally offered. Everyone in the room knew that was a lie. Everyone knew that score could make the difference between life and death.

Muffled sobs echoed from Faron's bedroom. They uncomfortably rebounded off of the glass and marble.

Linares let out a forced laugh and nervously gulped his drink, "Glade is right, the interviews will be easy for the boy. He's so charming the sponsor will adore him."

The sobs continued.

"I—" Meera suddenly felt sick, "I have to go."

It didn't occur to her until she reached the elevators that there was nowhere to go. Each Tribute was in lockdown until the arena. The Training Center was their personal jail. Her eyes scanned the numbers. 15 floors. During her second night in the Capitol she had visited the roof, not realizing how tall the building was. She remembered the cool mountain air and bright lights, it should have eased her anxiety but the view had only made it worse. Just like the crowds, the roof was a reminder of what lay outside the world she was about to be thrown into. She hated that reminder.

After minutes of contemplation Meera finally pressed the only floor that was left. The doors opened up to a vacant hallway. No one was out. The other Tributes were too busy either grieving or celebrating the scores they had been awarded.

A few guards eyed her suspiciously as she navigated through the corridors, but none of them stopped her. Below ground level sounds of footsteps and voices were more distorted, a few times Meera found herself peering back expecting to see someone only to realize that she was alone. Voices traveled through these passages like a river.

At the dining room she stopped. The doors were opened, they always were. Having nowhere else to go she cautiously entered. Food was left at a banquet table for any sleepless tributes or mentors. Near the back of the room Meera spotted a few mentors sharing a laugh. They barely gave her a glance.

She slipped over to the table of food and quietly bit her lip. Despite her sadness she was hungry, but she didn't crave any of the rich Capitol food that stared back at her. She craved the sandy bread from home. Moments of surveying the food passed before she grabbed an orange and took a seat. Her eyes narrowed at the piece of fruit. She was examining the leathery feel of the skin, the vibrant color. Like many other fruits, Meera had never had an orange before. In the Victor's Village there were orchards planted and irrigated daily—or so she heard—even then only a few plants were livable in District 5. Her lips tugged together in concentration, she remembered the way Linares had peeled one the other day—all in one go.

The fragrance made her mouth water.

Juice ran down her hands as she gradually clawed away the rind until a veiny and succulent fruit was revealed. If she ever made it back to District 5 the kids at the orphanage wouldn't believe all the fruit she had been offered. Crisp red apples, plump strawberries, sweet plums…the Capitol had it all, waiting to be eaten. Everything was so easy here. All Meera had to do was breath and an Avox would appear with a pitcher of water, not just a glass but an _entire _pitcher. The people here didn't understand survival or loss. Survival was an exotic attraction that only came to the city once a year for the games.

When she slipped an orange slice in her mouth and felt the juice burst she grimaced. It tasted fine, in fact it tasted delicious, but it was hard to enjoy such a luxury when she thought about what the future held.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Meera looked up. Glade smiled.

"Oh yea?" she whispered, her teeth cut into another slice.

"Well, there are only so many places you could wander to. I checked the roof before this."

"I don't like the roof."

"Why? The fresh air might be good for you, it's easy to feel trapped in this place."

"They have a shield up there. Just in case someone jumps."

Glade nodded, "I know."

She stabbed as a piece of orange skin with her nail, "Faron was upset."

"Wouldn't you be? A four isn't great."

"He won't make it out, neither of us will."

When Glade took a seat, Meera hid her face under a curtain of hair and dropped her eyes.

"I don't think I ever told you about my games."

She didn't reply.

"I was younger than you. Not by much, only 15. I was scared too."

All the stories Meera had heard about Glade's victory were like farfetched legends. Despite her stubborn reserve her eyes slowly lifted intently.

"The arena was a wasteland. Not quite like home…there was more vegetation…but to this day I think that's one of the reasons I survived. My first night there I could hear screams, I remember trying to figure out who they belonged to. Sometimes I still hear them. I dream about them too, just as you will if you win."

Her lips parted.

"By the third day I lost track of time. One by one tributes were being picked off. I had to adapt. I knew it. My mentor wasn't like me, he didn't care if I lived or died. I quickly realize I was the only one who cared if I survived. It had to mean something to me, you see? I had to want it."

Meera furrowed her brow. The taste of orange had soured on her tongue.

"I cried after my first kill, but when the second one came it got easier. That's the thing about the human body…despite it's strength it's incredibly fragile. My knife slid into other tributes like butter. I was just a shadow in the night, they didn't see me coming till it was too late."

"How many did you kill?"

Glade's gold eyes moved to Meera's face. This entire time she hadn't looked at her, now that she was Meera felt strangely connected.

"Five."

"Do you remember their names?"

"Yes. Every single one."

"I don't want to kill anyone, not even the Careers. I—"

"But you will, if you want to live you have to," she rose to her feet and stared down at her mentee, "I know you're an orphan, Meera. That doesn't mean you don't have anything to live for. I'm not going to ask you to smile for them, not anymore…mainly because I know you won't do it…but I'm asking you to fight for yourself. You deserve to survive. Tomorrow are the interviews. They're going to make light of the games. They'll expect you to play along. Whether you do or not is up to you."

Shocked, a nod was all Meera could manage. She felt strangely moved by Glade's words, and guilty that she had ever distrusted her mentor. All along she had been behind Meera. She could see it in those gold eyes now.

"Thank you," she whispered after a time.

"Yea. Don't stay down her too long, you need to rest."

Her mentor had only taken a few steps before Meera worked up the courage to speak again, "Glade?!" she paused, "How did you win?"

Glade stopped. Her head lowered for several seconds before she turned her face to the side. Meera could see sorrow in the shadows of that face. "A story for a different time, I'm afraid. Maybe if you get back from the arena I'll tell you one day."

Just as fast as she had come, she was gone.

The room felt darker, somehow smaller.

All alone, Meera stared down at the half-eaten orange and sighed. The fruit rested in a bleeding pool of juice. Somehow the sight made her miserable. She couldn't bring herself to eat the rest.


	7. A Crowd of Twisted Things

_A Crowd of Twisted Things_

Beyond the glass and far below, a crowd was starting to gather, swirling blotches under cover of darkness. Meera could hear their cheers and chants. From time to time firework explosions would light up their faces. Each time that it grew dark once more she wondered if they'd stop arriving, but there were always more—a river of people coming to see the main attraction of the evening. The annual pre-game interviews.

She winced as Genero grabbed a strand of hair and wrapped it around one his tools.

"Have you seen the crowds tonight? The Capitol is going to be in pandemonium, Benedict."

"Just this morning I heard Head Gamemaker Quint Laramie give Caesar an interview that you wouldn't believe."

"Quint Laramie…I still can't believe he's so young. Did you see his work during last year's games? The bit with the volcano eruption for the finale!? It was incredible. Beautiful work, simply beautiful."

Meera shrunk into a skeleton beneath her robe. She had been listening to them chatter for hours and it was beginning to wear on her intelligence. That very morning she abruptly awoke to see Benedict's giant eyes staring down at her, and the next thing Meera knew she was being rushed into the bathroom without fair warning or apologies. Even though she insisted that she could bathe herself they wouldn't hear of it. Apparently Alida and Linares had given them strict orders.

Bitterness strained her face as she held back a scream. Outside more fireworks exploded.

"Look up at me, Meera," Benedict grabbed her chin and pulled her face up to the light. "Relax your muscles."

"I'm trying," she growled through teeth.

He peered to Genero in surprise. "Perhaps the little dear is thirsty."

"I'm not a little dear."

Benedict didn't pick up on her aggression, and if he did he had chosen to ignore it. Instead he started to dab her skin with brushes and sponges. She gritted her teeth each time a wand or brush came at her eyes. It was hard enough to follow every order they gave, but to endure the constant touching was another thing entirely. Hugs and gentle touches were not things she was used to. She could barely remember her mother's hug. It didn't seem a normal thing. Now, thanks to her designer, Meera couldn't even take a bath without the help of these two fools.

"Where's Linares?" She asked.

"Ah, ah. No talking, you'll ruin my work. Smile…"

The gloss tingled as he brushed it on her lips. Behind Genero was humming. He was always humming. Sometimes Benedict would hum with him. That was almost as bad as the touching.

"Linares is coaching Faron."

Meera dropped her eyes and scowled. He had never tried coaching her—in fact she hadn't seen him all day. And there hadn't been a word from Glade. With the interviews almost here she felt nervous and confused. _Shouldn't they be trying to help me?_ The only explanation Meera could rationally ascertain was that Linares had given up on trying to make her charming altogether. That in itself gave her some satisfaction. She only wished the satisfaction was enough to calm her twisted nerves.

"After that episode with the scores, we all know how much that boy needs it."

"Oh of course he does, Genero. I could have sworn he started to crying this morning at breakfast."

"Poor boy."

A wave of anger took hold of Meera quite suddenly, "It must be nice to feel sorry for a 13 year old kid when he's about to be thrown in with a bunch of killers."

"Well—I never—"

"Now, now, Genero. Our little dear is just anxious for the interviews. The claws are out. That's good. It will make for an interesting interview! She knows we meant no harm."

"So true, Benedict."

Half a heartbeat passed. She thought about sinking her claws into them further, but truthfully there was no point. There was no use fighting them…they were only annoyances not the real problems. She had to stay focused and alert. Charming the crowds didn't interest her, but the interviews gave her an opportunity to see how the other tributes acted under pressure. She resolved to keep her eyes open and remember any important details that might keep her alive during the arena. The night before Glade had shared a part of her life that Meera knew was hidden under layers of repression. It had opened her eyes. Survival was key now. The odds were not in her favor, but if she was going to die she would die fighting.

"Alright, I think—we're almost done."

Benedict chewed on the end of one of the makeup brushes and stepped back. He stared at a face the way a painter scrutinizes a canvas.

"Time's almost up," Genero said, "You know how Alida is about schedules. She should be arriving any minute."

"Yes. Schedules, schedules, schedules…I keep telling her you can't rush art."

"Don't I know it. Nonetheless we have to listen, or will never hear the end of it."

They giggled together with so much delight that Meera wanted to die.

"You would be so much more beautiful if you smiled, little dear."

"It takes too much effort," she whispered half-heartedly. Secretly his comment gave her pleasure. She had no intention of being beautiful. She was a person, not a piece of sculpture.

_Maybe they'll like me better this way_, she hoped, _reserved and slow to laugh_.

Past games were filled with tributes that changed themselves to gain favor with the crowd. It didn't seem right to lose yourself, to let the Capitol devour and spit you out as something different. These games were about to take her life and she wasn't going to die as liar and a fraud.

Just as Benedict and Genero started squawking again Meera's bedroom door swung open. Alida came fluttering in with her hands full of sewing supplies. A gown was slung over her narrow shoulders. She was dressed in a tailored leather suit with an exaggerated white collar. Her sly eyes shifted around.

"It's showtime," she breathless said, "I hope you're almost done over there. Interviews begin in 30 minutes. Kye already sent Faron down."

"We're just finishing up. Only a few final touches," Benedict sang back.

Meera was trying to catch a glimpse of the gown. It was hard to see completely. She noted several traits. It was black and rather long. The neckline looked deep, which terrified her.

Alida put a sewing needle in one mouth and walked over. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of Meera, "Good, just as we had discussed, but make the side part deeper, Genero."

"Yes, Alida."

Meera felt him rework her hair.

"The makeup is spot on. Except I want a dab of pink in the corners, just there..."

Benedict shot her an insulted look, but quickly obeyed.

"Yes, that's good. Very good. Meera get up. C'mon…up, up. We don't have much time."

Alida swung her dark ponytail behind her shoulders. With the designer there was always a hint of command in her voice, always the shrewd look. If Meera didn't hate her so much she would have been scared.

"And take off that robe, you won't be wearing that for the interviews!"

Immediately she started to untie her silken kimono and follow Alida. It slipped off her shoulders and onto the floor before the designer got the gown off the rack.

"Benedict, get a mirror for Miss Eastwood. The long one."

A painful gasp blew out of Meera as she wiggled into the gown. The bodice was very tight. Luckily she had small breasts, if they were any larger the plunging neckline would have been provocative. It fell stopped just below her sternum creating a very sharp rectangle at the bottom. She could feel Alida stitching last minute touches here and there. Her cheeks expanded as she took in another strained breath.

"Isn't black a poor choice?" She winced as the designer fastened another button, "I thought the point was to stand out? Make a good impression."

Alida laughed, "Trust me, you'll stand out just fine. Let's just say this is a refined take on that dress of light bulbs you didn't wear the first time we met."

Meera furrowed her brow. She had no idea what that meant. Was it going to be like the opening ceremonies? Like liquid light flowing from her dress? She dropped her eyes to the gown. It didn't look like it was glowing. All she saw was black.

"Alright, turn around!" Benedict exclaimed.

First she curled her head around, then the rest of her turned with wide eyes. Shocked and speechless she stared at the person in the mirror. It was frightening how radiate they had made her. Her dark auburn hair was left down and parted to the side. A neon shade of cobalt and pink brightened her stormy blue eyes. Her skin looked like porcelain.

The dress was another speechless wonder. Black fabric clung to her bodice and hips but quickly trumpeted out into a long train. It wasn't until she saw the train that Meera understood what Alida had meant. Diamonds scattered down the train, sparkling in the light. It looked like the night sky back in District 5. Each diamond sparkled with a little life of its own. For a final touch the designer forced her into a pair of heels that made Meera feel taller than she ever had or would.

The journey to the elevators was a challenge.

"She's a mess in those heels," Genero whispered to Benedict.

"She's also not deaf," Alida quickly quipped, "You'll be fine, Meera. Just remember...heel, toe, heel, toe. Just like walking in boots."

Meera clutched the walls of the elevator and dropped her eyes. This wasn't like walking in boots. This was like walking on stilts. Because the train on the dress was so long she had to hold it as she moved, which only made the dilemma of walking more embarrassing.

"Stop shrugging like that!" Alida hissed.

Meera nervous straightened her back.

The elevator doors opened. While Benedict and Genero stayed behind, Alida led the way. They walked through a maze of corridors until finally they reached the annex that rested just off the stage.

"When your turn come don't hold the train. Let it glide behind you. And for god's sakes, if you're not going to smile at least give the audience something to bite on, got it?"

"Yes," Meera quietly replied. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"I'll be out there with the rest of them. Keep a nice posture. Don't ruin the look of the dress."

_Words of comfort_. Meera shook her head, rolling her shoulders a few times as she did so. The District 5 team really did have a way of easing their tributes into these disasters.

When the doors opened her fear intensified. The competitors were lining up. Screens in the annex showed Caesar Flickerman warming up the crowd with mindless jokes and laughter. A countdown above the row of curtains was running. Only 5 minutes till the stage. The show was about to start. Meera's thoughts quickly went to past preliminary interviews. Everyone had their own strategy going in. Whether it was being confident, humble, funny, or fierce, all the good tributes had a strategy. Not Meera. She chewed on her bottom lip and let one of the stage crewmembers usher her into the line.

"_If you're not going to smile at least give the audience something to bite on."_

She may have hated Alida but the designer was right. She needed an angle. There wasn't a charming bone in her body. She wasn't exceedingly funny or bubbly. On paper she met none of the requirements for a successful interview.

By her side Faron practiced his smiling. His interview outfit had a similar theme to Meera's. It was a black suit, diamonds accented the lapels of his jacket. Just like her dress, the suit had transformed Faron into something beautiful, but all Meera saw when she looked at him now was the way his face had dropped when his score had been announced. She remembered the pained sobs echo through the room as he ran away. It hurt just to think about.

"Okay, we're on in 10 seconds," a crewmember rushed by the line and shouted.

Suddenly her mouth went dry. _Had it already been 5 minutes?_

The urge to run hit her like a ton of bricks, but before Meera knew it she was walking.

_Heel, toe, heel, toe_, she silently thought, letting the dress's train fall from her hands.

Applause coursed through the air and shook the ground. As all the tributes filed out they started to wave or nod.

At first the lights were blinding. Meera had to concentrate on keeping her expression composed and calm. It was hard to manage. So many things were going on at once…the audience, the stage…if she didn't focus on the head of the District 4 female in front of her she would have collapsed.

The velvet cushion sank at she took her seat. She remembered Alida's comment about posture and tried to simulate the most lady-like stance she could think of.

Caesar Flickerman was on his feet with a microphone. His hair was a vibrant shade of lapis lazuli—and his eyes sparkled with the same color. For years he had been the host of the interviews and he still looked just as young as the day he started. A trick of the Capitol's. They hated wrinkles and aging. Meera concealed a grimace, realizing that she would probably never know what it felt like to age.

Cameras along the stage swung around. They weren't just focused on Caesar, a few skimmed the row of tributes. Meera wondered if her friends at the orphanage were watching her at that very moment. She silently hoped they weren't.

Slowly the interviews began. Each time a tribute rose the crowd erupted in a wave of terrifying excitement.

District 1's Dawn Wallace confidently bantered with Caesar, winking at the cameras and audience every chance she got. Meera found it nauseating but the crowd love every minute of it.

Berris Adams took a different approach. He stayed serious. His eyes burned with such intensity that it horrified Meera.

"I'm a triple threat," Berris said, "I know I have the strength, agility, and speed to win these games. Anyone who gets in my way better look out."

Meera hands clawed into the chain when she heard that. She had no intention of getting in anyone's way.

When Rillian Lewis's turn came he unbutton his suit jacket and waved to the crowd. Much to Meera's surprise he smiled. It was almost impressive how real that smile looked considering how contrived it was. His angle seemed to be working very well. He never mention his strength or speed, which he easily could have. Instead he made witty remarks and humbly nodded. Caesar brought up Rillian's score of 10.

"Well I don't know if I deserved a perfect score…I think it might have been all luck."

The crowd cooed playful _"no's"_ at that comment and applaud his modesty. At that he glanced to the audience and bowed his head courteously.

It was intimidating how good the Careers were at heating up this crowd. It took Meera years to make friends and these tributes were romancing the Capitol as if there were nothing to it.

Districts 3 and 4 flashed by before she could blink. Rapid breaths shook her chest. She wished she could slow time, or at the very least ease her growing queasiness. At the rate her heart was beating she was sure to collapse onto the stage.

The buzzer sounded.

_This is it_, she thought, _No more time for thinking. Just get through this_.

"Now onto the next. District 5's very own Meera Eastwood. Meera why don't you come down here!"

The train dragged behind her as she made her way down the steps towards center stage. Caesar's eyes widened in excitement and camera's swung around to capture the dresses presences. When Meera reached out and shook Caesar's hand she was uncomfortably aware of how sweaty her palms had become.

"Meera Eastwood!"

The audience rose in a clamor of applause. They were loving the dress. Meera could see why. In the bedroom the diamonds had sparkled but the stage lights had magnified them ten times over. The train of her dress was the night sky, following her into the interview with promise.

"Well, well. I'd ask you to spin for us, but I don't think you can in an outfit like that."

"I can barely walk in it, let alone spin."

The audience and Caesar suddenly broke into laughter. Her blue eyes darted to the crowd in shock. She hadn't meant it to be funny.

"The Capitol must be a change for you…"

"Yes—I—" it felt like she was swallowing razors, this wasn't the time to choke up. "District 5 is very different."

"Oh? Such as?"

_Was he serious?_ Meera held back a skeptical look.

"Well for one there are no sandstorms here."

Again the crowd laughed and Caesar chuckled with them. He even slapped his leg, as if to convey the depths of honesty in his amusement. Without a smile Meera peered around in disbelief. It seemed that they had mistaken her candidness for dry wit.

"That was a beautiful entrance you made for the opening ceremonies. Now I know I say this a lot, but Meera, you were literally glowing. How did it feel to be out there?"

She braided her fingers in her lap. The questions weren't hard, but every answer that came to mind wasn't appropriate. If she chose to be blunt all of Panem would see it and know how dead she was. She didn't have the strength to back up arrogance, and she could barely manage a smirk let alone a smile. This was going to be complicated.

"Nervous, I suppose. It's something else to be in the spotlight. Back in District 5 I never was one for the crowds."

"But you're so beautiful. Of course the spotlight was on you."

"Frankly the dress did all the work," Meera was surprised to here a few _"no's"_ rumble throughout the crowd. Even with her terrible interview skills the Capitol was fully engaged, "I just stood there."

"Aha—she's a modest one," Caesar leaned towards the crowd, pretending to whisper, "Everyone give her a clap."

The audience obeyed with a unified laugh.

"It was beautiful, Meera. Beautiful."

"Well, thanks," she nodded to the crowd as well without a smile, "That's very nice."

Just beyond Caesar she could see the other competitors watching. The golden tributes from District 1 were staring at her with edgy concentration. Livia, Disitrict 2, was hiding a cruel smirk behind a sheen of brown hair. Rillian Lewis had his arms crossed. He noticed her eye shift to him and immediately looked away.

Suddenly the urge to try was overwhelming. Her breath caught in her throat just before she spoke.

"I did enjoy all the fruit you guys have here."

Caesar's lips broke into a large toothy grin. He hadn't expected it.

"Fruit?!"

"Well, I was just thinking about how different my District is from the Capitol. We don't have all these diverse fruits."

"Oh really?"

"Yes—um—just last night I had my very first orange."

"And what did you think?"

"It was—strange."

The crowded hooted and clapped. Apparently all Meera had to do was say facts and it would send the entire audience into a frenzy. Not once had she told a joke, and yet they were laughing nonstop. She couldn't complain. It was a good thing they were mistaking her mirthless words for jokes, the alternative would have been uncomfortable. Of course she couldn't give all the credit to the public's stupidity. Caesar Flickerman knew what he was doing. He had a way of twisting these interviews into lighthearted conversations. It didn't matter if she smiled or not when she was sitting next to a person who could blind you with his teeth.

"So Meera, what do you bring to the arena?"

_Fine_, she thought, _they want jokes. I'll give them jokes_.

"Well if I told you that now it wouldn't be very sporting would it?"

"C'mon, just between you and me, what tricks are up your sleeve?"

"Well let's just say my plans are full proof…just as long as there are oranges."

Huge laughs. Caesar put his hand on his stomach, "You heard it hear first, people!"

"I know. Breaking news."

Her deadpan delivery made them even more amused. She swallowed hard, hoping they couldn't notice the way her fingers were trembling.

"Now on a more serious note. Back in your District—you're an orphan?"

The crowd gave a faint _"aww"_ to that. She silently cursed them. The pity wasn't necessary, in fact it was exceedingly humiliating. Her cheeks flushed with crimson.

"Yes."

"Do you think that will be a hindrance or a motivator during the games?"

Meera was astonished. The question threw her for a loop. Mild insult read in her eyes.

"Well I have just as much to fight for as the others. I may not have my parents anymore but there are people I care about, people I'll fight to see again. I know more than most what it takes to survive."

"Yes, District 5 is renowned for their quick tributes. I believe your mentor is one of them."

"A trait I hope to show during the games."

The buzzer sounded.

"There goes the time. Meera…" he shook her hand once more, "It was a pleasure. Meera Eastwood everyone!"

The cheers continued well after she had taken her seat again. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. She was having an out of body experience. Her limbs and head felt like they were lifting into the air. All the other interviews melted away. From time to time she'd see herself on the big screens and straighten her back, but other than that she was gone. Far away in her own thoughts and fears Meera stayed.

All preliminaries were finished.

There was only one thing left. The hardest part of all.

She struggled to envision herself on a cold metal plate gazing out at the arena. No matter how hard she tried all she saw was the sea of faces that had stared at her during the reaping back in District 5. They would be watching tomorrow. They would be waiting.

Applause erupted as the interviews came to a close.

Her blood thickened with sobered woe as she bowed her head to the cheering crowd and departed. The tributes of the 43rd Hunger Game moved in a procession, disappearing into the shadows and out of the limelight. The next time Panem saw them they would be covered in blood, sweat, and fear.

She closed her eyes as a breeze poured through the City Circle and kissed her skin. _Tomorrow_, was all Meera could think, _tomorrow_.


	8. By This, And This Only, We Have Existed

_By This, And This Only, We Have Existed_

Rain poured.

Only a few paces ahead rested the aircraft that would take her to the arena. She clasped her hands together, the sight alone made her stomach churn. Faraway the sun had barely cracked the horizon. You could smell dawn through the cloudburst. It wasn't like the fragrant sunrises of District 5. Hot on the heels of the rising sun were the smells of rusted metal and dreams.

Meera was modestly clad in a black shift. No adornments decorated her body or hair—even her feet were bare. When she had asked Alida about the lack of clothing her designer arrogantly explained that all tributes prepared and dress in their individual launch rooms before entering the arena. Meera had hoped it would be Glade seeing her off and not Alida. Much to her disappointment this was against protocol. The presence of a mentor would be seen as dishonest odds to others who only had stylists at their sides, or so the designer had so condescendingly described.

_It won't matter if I have a mentor or not_, was what Meera wanted to growl back,_ a few tips before the arena aren't going to save me_.

Suddenly the hovercraft roared to a start. Instinctually she stepped back only to feel Alida's sharp nails stopping her. Bile and breakfast ebbed and flowed in her stomach. It was hard to subdue the growing nausea.

"Where are the others?"

Alida cocked her eyebrow, disregarding the question entirely. "Come along. There's not much time. The world's waiting."

_The world's waiting_. It was a grim and foreboding beckoning but Meera followed anyways, silently wondering if there was any world beyond Panem. _If there was it doesn't matter. Not for you, not anymore_.

Out in the storm her shift spastically licked her knees. Raindrops poured down her shoulders and nose.

"Grab the ladder."

"What?" It was hard to hear anything over the hovercraft's snarls.

Without another word Alida snatched Meera's hand and placed them on the black steel ladder. "Hold on!" She shouted.

Meera furrowed her brow. Faster than a blink of the eye the ladder started pulling her up. In surprise her feet faltered. If it hadn't been for Alida's steady hands she would have dropped. Down and up she looked. Confusion screwed her face up. Somehow the ladder had a life of its own.

Inside a woman in a white uniform was waiting with a syringe in hand.

"Arm please."

It wouldn't have mattered if Meera refused—the scientist grabbed her wrist before she was able to understand the command. The thick needle pressed deep into her skin. Sharp pain made her gasp.

"Ah. What is that?"

"A tracker, Miss Eastwood."

She was expecting to see blood gushing, but when the woman drew back the needle there was only a sliver of scarlet. Below the layers of skin Meera saw a light flashing. Now they would know exactly where she was at all times. She had been tagged like a piece of cattle.

The door was sealed. From somewhere close to the nose of the aircraft she heard the pilots laughing together. In the bowels of the jet a deep and guttural roar trembled the metal grated floor. They were taking off. As the jet lifted Meera's stomach rose to her throat. She clutched the chair in terror as it shook. For the first few seconds of flight she was more concerned with keeping her breakfast down than the games.

"The ride will be a little bumpy because of the storm," Alida explained.

"Why isn't Faron with us?"

"The tributes aren't allowed to see each other until the games begin. Everyone is taken separately. Kye was with Faron."

Meera's palm dampened the armrest. She had millions of questions but apprehension and fear quickly left her tongue-tied.

The air in the jet was sterile and dry. Although an Avox walked by offering food and refreshments she declined. Alida on the other hand ordered a strange tonic the color of blood. Her plump lips slurped it through a straw. The noise coupled with the crimson hue made Meera cringe.

After half an hour had passed the hovercraft started its descent. She nervously wrestled with her seat. Her eyes fearfully turned to the windows only to be blinded. They had blacked them out.

_The arena_, she thought in dread, _we're here_.

Soon after landing Alida and Meera traveled to an elevator that took them deep below the surface. The catacombs were hollow and unforgiving. Sound rebounded through each tunnel, and yet there was no way to decipher their origins. Helium lights flickered from above.

Once in the launch room Meera's eyes darted around. There wasn't much inside. A couch and table were the only pieces of furniture.

"Get ready," Alida nodded to a clock, "Time's ticking."

It wasn't until she looked up that she saw the clock. It was set to a countdown. Only one hour until the games began.

The warmth of the shower was hard to appreciate under such circumstances. A few times Meera had to run to the toilet to throw up. She wanted to think it was from the shaky jet ride, but her nerves told a different story.

Alida dried her hair and left it down. Waves of auburn dropped down her naked shoulders, "It will be good to keep it down in the arena. The audience will know you by your beautiful hair."

Meera sourly looked away. She was too tired and scared to fight back.

Next came the outfit. Her breath hitched as she struggled into a pair of black trousers and glanced to the other items. There were three layers for the top. The first was a simply shirt, the second a large grey sweater, and finally a black hooded jacket.

"Looks like you're going somewhere cold."

The boots were ridged and tall. They hugged her feet as Alida helped her into them.

"Here. Drink some water. You'll be wishing you had some when you get up to the arena."

"Do you think it's a desert?" A part of her hoped it was, she knew how to deal with a desert.

"Doubt it with what you're wearing. But you never know. I've seen tributes die of thirst even with drinkable water around. Here—"

She grabbed the glass, quickly taking a few hardy gulps.

"Drink it slow!"

Meera widened her eyes. Obediently she turned the gulps into shy sips. She drank even after the thirst had disappeared. Silence filled the room. Occasionally she would look up to the clock and feel her heart quicken. Time was running out. Second by second the numbers changed. She tried to calmly braid her fingers together but quickly found that she was cutting off her own circulation in worry.

Finally a voice broke through the speakers. A metal plate was implanted at the center of the room, as soon as the anonymous woman spoke its perimeter lit up.

Meera could hear how quivered her breaths were as she stepped forward. The ridged boots gripped the slick metal. She could feel the blood pulling out of her head.

_Don't faint_, she thought, _if you faint right out of the gate you'll certainly be dead_.

Suddenly Meera wanted to speak, to say anything. She shifted her eyes to Alida. Her mouth opened, but there was nothing to say. This could be the last person she spoke to before death. Maybe Alida could deliver a message, give a goodbye to Zara that she hadn't been able to give herself. She let out a strained breath and screwed up her face.

"Tell—"

A glass cylinder abruptly swooped down, turning Meera's words into muffled nothings. Alida didn't seem to mind. Her face never changed. _Of course she doesn't care, she knows I'm as good as dead_.

Her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes lifted. The metal plate started moving, pushing her…guiding her up.

For a moment darkness consumed the tube. In the dark she forgot how to breathe and how to speak, she forgot everything. Terror took hold. It wasn't like anything she had ever felt. Then the darkness lifted, turning into light—bright light. She squinted with a raised and trembled hand.

The musty air from the catacombs transformed.

A thunderous voice boomed.

_The countdown_, she remembered.

"_60…59…58…"_

Details started to break through the chaos. In the launch room she had been sweating underneath the layers of clothing, now they were just right. The air was crisp. She had never felt this type of cold. She could smell salt and dirt.

Her blue eyes blinked. Slowly her vision adjusted to the daylight and her lips parted in shock.

"_40…39…38…"_

The tributes were all in a circle. Surrounding them was a vast region of marshes and tundra. Bogs and low growing green and red vegetation filled the landscape, silver pools of water dominated the area for miles and miles. To the west was an ocean, giant fangs of ice jutted out of the grey waters. To the north were bluffs and mountains. To the east and south a forest and more water.

Meera's mouth turned to ash. She rubbed her finger together. _Think Meera…think_. Her only hope was to run for the woods. It wouldn't be easy though. The tundra looked immense. It was at least a full day's hike in any direction.

"_30…29…28…"_

A breeze chilled her blood. Adrenaline was starting to kick in. It was windy here. The skies filled with opaque clouds.

"_20…19…18…"_

Tributes adjusted their posture. Every eye turned to the center, where the cornucopia waited. It gleamed drearily in the light, overflowing with weapons and packs. Meera's heart rattled. Her best chance of survival was to run but the cornucopia didn't look that far away.

"_10…9…8…"_

White breath rose from her lips. Somewhere out there the cameras were filming this. _Can they see me shaking? Can they tell how petrified I am?_

"_5…4…"_

Her eyes lifted.

"…_3…"_

Directly across from her the female tribute from District 2 stared. Livia smiled a crooked smile as their eyes met.

_Don't think about her. Think about the packs. Think about running. Run, you stupid fool, Run. _

The countdown finished. White noise and brittle wind assaulted Meera's ears. All tributes were rushing off their plates and she was no different. She leapt forward and started to sprint. The smart ones immediately ran away, all others dashed towards the cornucopia.

Harsh breaths filled her lungs. It was hard to run. The ground was soggy and dense. Random shallow pools waited underneath moss.

She clutched her hands into fists. Her eyes locked on the nearest pack. _Only a few more strides. _

Screams rang out. The clap of the canon shook the entire arena. Only a few seconds in and tributes were dropping like flies.

Once she was close enough Meera slid onto her knees and reached for the pack. Her fingertips were less than an inch away when another set of hands snatched it out from under her. She fell to the ground and gasped as a wiry tribute from District 3 starting running. He only got a few steps away before a spear came flying through the air and into his chest. Blood spewed onto Meera as he fell to the ground, soaking her hair in a bath of scarlet. The Careers were already to the weapons.

_My hair,_ was all she thought for a split second, _Alida wanted it to make me stand out. She got her wish. _

Her glance moved towards a shadow near the cornucopia. She felt her nails sink into the moss and mud. The shadow was Rillian Lewis. He had thrown the spear at District 3, a second one was in his left hand. In a daze she froze. He was staring right at her. His velvet brown eyes were burning like coals, but he wasn't moving.

_Why isn't he killing me?_

"Rillian!" Someone shouted. He turned away.

When his head was turned Meera finally snapped out of it. Immediately she started crawling towards the fresh corpse. A groan sounded as she pulled the pack away from the tribute's rigid hands and slung it on her back.

Her eyes met the dead boys. They were wide with youth and fright.

"Sorry," she whispered.

The world was spinning and she was spinning with it. With some unknown strength Meera managed to climb to her feet. Her legs burned with urgency as she started running east. There was no way she would make the tree line within the next few hours even if she were running the entire time, but anywhere was better than right here.

Behind her were screams. To her side other tributes were scattering, some were heading in the same direction as her, others were making their way to the mountains.

She gritted her teeth. _Don't look back. Don't look back. _

Blood was dripping from her chin and hair. She let out a whimper as she waded through a cold bog and dashed across a shallow creek. Her boots crunched under rock and low growth. She ran even when she wanted to stop, trying to match the rhythm of her feet with the beating of her heart.

She was well away from the cornucopia when she peered to the side. Only a few feet away she caught sight of a girl running over what looked like a patch of dirt—but it wasn't dirt, not at all. The girl screamed as she was swallowed. Meera slid to a stop and watched as the tribute tried to struggle out, to no avail. The girl was sinking and she was sinking fast.

Immediately Meera knew what it was, she remembered it from the terrain station during training, "Quicksand."

"Help me!" The girl screamed. By then she was up to her chin.

Meera looked to the far off trees and then back again. Her hands struggled with the straps of the pack. In that moment all she could think about was Zara. This was the Hunger Games but did that make it right for her to standby as the earth devoured a child? Her lips rubbed together. Fight or flight?

"Dammit," she finally hissed.

It wasn't a long sprint. Her gaze twitched around before dropping to the edge of quicksand.

"Help me!" The girl wailed. She was young, Meera knew, she could see it in her face.

"Just stay still!"

"I'm sinking…oh god…help!"

"Listen to me. It's quicksand, okay? You have to stop struggling!"

The girl didn't listen, in panic and helplessness she continued to thrash around. The more she moved the deeper she sunk. Slowly the little girl's mouth filled with quicksand, tears streamed down her face. Meera scrambled for a branch but there was nothing around except lichen, peat and moss.

"Hold on…" she fearfully stammered, "Just—here—here grab my hand! Grab it!"

She stretched her arm out as far as it could go. The little girl's hands barely grazed Meera's fingers. She strained her arm, trying to extend it further, but it wouldn't budge.

"C'mon."

Yells bellowed. Other tributes were moving closer.

"C'mon!" Meera shouted, angrier than before, "Grab my hand!"

But the girl sank deeper. When the quicksand covered her eyes Meera knew that was it. She stared in horror as the girl's red hair turned black with dirt and water. Bubbles were all that was left in the end. Then there were no bubbles. The quicksand stilled as if nothing had happened. A single canon boomed.

In disbelief Meera shuffled back, struggling for air. She felt lightheaded and sick. Her hand cupped over her mouth. If she had it her way she would have collapsed on the ground and given up but something inside was pushing her. Something told her to move, and so she listened.

Her hand lowered to her chest and then to the ground. When she rebounded to her feet she briefly turned back. The cornucopia was a splotch in the distance. Shadows were moving this way and that.

No doubt the Careers would rally together before their first hunt. She gripped the straps of her pack and pulled her hoodie over her bloody hair. Meera was determined to move as far away from them as possible.

Marshes and tundra went on and on. The flatlands changed to rolling hills. Half the time Meera was forced to wade through the water but even still she made sure to keep a trained eye on the ground. If there was one quicksand trap there were more. At a stream she dropped the pack and cleaned her hair and face. Blood turned the water pink before it swirled downstream. Quiet replaced screams. Now was as good a time any to see what she was carrying on her back. With dripping hair she opened the rucksack. Staring back at her was a bottle, purification tablets, an apple, a bundle of tarp, and flares.

She swooshed the items around and turned the pack upside down, hoping that there was a knife or tool inside, but that was it. The tarp could be of use in the rain but without rope or twine there'd be no way to fasten it. Flares were good for drawing attention but not much else. With a sigh she started to fill the bottle with water.

_At least I have water_, she thought. _At least I'm not dead_.

Soon the silver skies began to darken. In place of clouds came stars, bigger and brighter than Meera had ever seen—they way they blazed looked unnatural. It was well into the night when she decided to rest again. Without trees there was nowhere to hide. She curled herself between two rocks and shivered. Pain in her stomach urged her to eat but she refused. All she had was one apple and she wasn't about to waste that the first day. Her arms crossed and her eyes peered out over the landscape. On top of the hill she could see campfires springing up. A moment of stupid envy overtook her until she realized how terrible of an idea it was. A fire in the dark was the surest way to get killed.

She rested her head against the cold stone. It could have cut into her cheek and she wouldn't have cared. Noises started to purr through the arena. The sound of the marshes. Croaks, caws, and screeches. From time to time she thought she heard screams, but then the wind would change directions and it would be silent once more.

Weaponless and trembling she laid. When she closed her eyes the anthem delicately trumpeted through those grotesquely large stars. Faces appeared, but none that she recognized. A crane swept down and perched on a nearby boulder. She had never seen a bird like it before.

"Hello," she rawly whispered to the strange creature. The wind ate her voice.

A mask of scarlet traced the bird's face and long black legs gripped the rock. Its black eyes stared down at her. Its head twitched from left to right as if it were trying to figure out what she had said. If she had been more vigilant and less tired the masked crane would have made an excellent meal, but she could barely lift a finger. Rest was more important than food right now. It seemed to sense her hunger though and with a sharp screech it flew away.

Despite adrenaline and fear she started to nod off. Before it got to the final fallen tribute her had slumped into the moss. As her eyes closed she counted the deaths. _13_, she thought, _13 and more to come_.


	9. Droseraceae

_Droseraceae_

When Meera Eastwood was a child she ran along the rooftops of District 5. Her face was just as dirty as the other forgotten children that found solace along the peaks at daybreak and dusk, but she was the fastest. Nimble and swift Meera jumped from eave to pipe, from pipe to beam. Her movements felt as involuntary and natural as breathing. The hot breeze was all the motivation necessary to keep moving…but now she wasn't a child anymore, and this certainly wasn't District 5.

A blood-curdling scream interrupted her restless sleep. A baritone cannon echoed. At first she wondered if it had all been some strange dream, but the smell of salty dirt was enough to remind her of the truth. Her eyes opened. In the night the dewy ground had hardened into crystals of ice. The hoarfrost beads glittered in the sunlight. Under any other circumstances it would have been a wonder for Meera to behold, but not like this, not now.

A sudden screech from above seized her attention. Her eyes of deep pool blues lifted to see the masked crane perched on the exact same boulder he had been the night before. Its beak parted with another call.

_Move,_ it seemed to tell her. _You have get up and move_. So in reply she did just that.

The pack felt heavier than it had the day before. Her legs burned. Out on the moors the wind lashed and bit like the devil, sending quakes of cold through her body. The longer she walked the more she noticed a shadow tailing her. High above the crane was following. The moment she knelt to the shore of a long creek to fill her bottle up it swoop down for a fish. The bird barely wet its feathers as it snatched a silvery fish. In one gigantic gulp it swallowed the fish whole. Meera's stomach growled as she watched. It was the first time she could ever say she was jealous of a bird. If only she fished as well as the crane then she wouldn't be starving right now. It cawed in delight and flapped its wings.

As far as Meera knew animals would stay away from predators. She may not have been an intimidating predator to most creatures but to this stalking bird she was. _Or maybe I'm even more hopeless than I thought. _After all, what would she kill it with, her tarp?

Onward she walked. There was no point in running, at last not yet. Without food she could feel fatigue quickly setting in. Water could only fill her stomach up for so long. Soon she would need to forage for something substantial to fill her stomach with. While Meera pondered over the possible nutritious properties of moss dusted in swampy salt and dirt her gaze lifted to the tree line. Surprisingly, it wasn't the faces of dying tributes that haunted her dreams last night. It was the marshy tundra, the moors…it was the cold. But the harsh morning frost was starting to melt away, and with it her nightmares.

Closer and closer she approached the thicket of trees. With every step she twitched her eyes around. The risk on the rolling tundra was visibility. Surely some tributes could see her now. She pulled her hood over her hair as if to shield and bay her growing fears. It didn't.

Soon marshy tundra disappeared entirely. Low growing bushes sprouted around her, quickly morphing into seedlings and sparse trees. Although the transition from open landscape to coverage had been long, once at the trees the thickening happened swiftly. The canopy was heavy with pine and deciduous growth. Despite daylight hours, darkness dominated here. Trees grew on trees. Gnarled roots and crooked branches crawled and hung like skeletons. The only thing that remained from the region to her back was the soggy ground. Her feet sunk deep, the gooey mud squishing and slurping beneath the ridges of her boots. Reeds poked out from still waters and bogs. All around crickets whispered. There was a beauty to these woods, Meera knew, but the beauty was wicked and eerie. Every step led her further. Every rustle of leaves sent a shiver down her spine.

Hunger was starting to wear on her. Without any weapons or trapping supplies Meera was forced to scour the woods for berries, an endeavor that was surprisingly difficult. Berries didn't grow in forests like these. Near a dying tree she struggled to build a trap out of reeds and sticks but that proved to be a complete failure as well—she was able to construct a mediocre trap but the minute it was finished the pieces sunk into the wet ground and collapsed. As time went by she resorted to chewing on sappy pieces of bark. Initially the taste and texture was revolting but the sweetness of the sap made the brittle chunks go down easier. Her teeth crunched into another piece with a grimace. Her mind wandered to the apple in her rucksack.

_Not yet_, she had to tell herself

Yesterday there had been at least five tributes that rushed towards the forest. Meera knew the outcome of one of them—her lips paled as she recalled the quicksand—but where were the other four? She listened and looked for telltale signs of disturbances in the woods. Nothing stood out. In the dim light, under the canopy, it was hard to differentiate her own footsteps from the natural patterns in the muck, let alone someone else's tracks. The deeper she journeyed the more she wanted to leave. In passing Meera noticed trees devouring and growing over other trees, the sight made her wonder if that would be her fate if she dared to sit and rest.

In the distance a noise rattled. Her brow furrowed. Her muscles froze. Before she could make out the sound it faded with the wind. _It's probably nothing. It's just a forest._

Darkness wasn't the only thing to fear in these woods. Meera knew that. A time would come when she would need to defend herself. Without any tools or weapons she was helpless. There was no doubt that the Careers had a treasure trove of brilliant steel axes, swords, and knives. Meera may have been ignorant to the ways of battle but even she realized that steel always beats rock.

Leaves rustled. Trees cracked and creaked.

After moments of silent dismay and lip gnawing she came to a stop. White breaths rose through the air as she lowered her body into the cradle of aged tree roots. It seemed as if all the growth in this forest had a slickness to it. Strange residue seeped from the bark and vegetation. _Tears_, she thought, _the trees are weeping like the ground_.

With the sharpest stone she could find and a thin branch Meera started to whittle. Stripping the bark was easy but maneuvering the stone was another matter. A few times her hand slipped and sent the sharp edge punching through her thumb. By the time she was done the makeshift spear was clasped in blood soaked hands.

_Caw! Caw!_

Her eyes rose, only to darken.

The masked crane was staring at her. Its beady eyes were blinking from a tree limb, a gaze that reminded her of Genero's obsidian chipped eyes. The bird had followed her miles into the forest.

_Caw!_ It repeated. _Caw! Caw!_

The crane's callous song slowly transformed into some strange taunt. Meera scowled with parted lips, "Go away!" Her voice boomed through the trees. It was amazing how hollow those echoes sounded in such a full forest.

In the shadows came another rattled, but this time she barely heard it. Her eyes were glued to the crane.

_Caw!_ It persisted. _Caw!_

Her bloody fingers gripped the pathetic trifle of a spear tightly. If she had a steel one she would have hurled it at the bird and made it into a meal. The longer it screeched the angrier she became. All the frustration, all the fears inside, focused on that single bird. With a growl she grabbed the nearest rock and jumped to her feet.

"I said go away!" She screamed. The rock smashed the crane in the wing and sent him flying into the sky with shrill squawks. Soon the bird's cries vanished.

Silence fell, but not for long.

Only a heartbeat passed before another noise broke through the forest—a louder noised that made her blood run cold.

A sputtering echo whistled around trees. A gust of wind sent her auburn hair dancing, every reed bowed to the ground.

What happened next was so sudden that it knocked the breath out of her lungs.

Leaves started to fall to the forest floor. Hundreds of leaves.

She turned her gaze to the only slice of sky visible through the canopy. Birds and bats were flying, swarms of them. They had departed from their limbs and nests in panic. Even the crickets had quieted. In terrified awe she held out her palm and caught a falling leaf. It dissolved into nothing in her grasp.

From deep in the shadows the forest gurgled.

Wisps of hair blew over her eyes and cheeks. The breeze smelt wrong, almost foul.

The gurgle heightened, matched with another sound this time. The sound of footsteps and screams.

She staggered back and turned her eyes to the east.

"_Run!"_ one of the screams said.

A cry rang out.

She felt her heart jump as branches parted only a few feet away.

"Stay back!" Meera yelled.

Standing before her were two red-face and terrified tributes. They had burst through the foliage with another gust of wind. She recognized one immediately, the olive skinned tribute from District 10. His eyes wildly looked at her. Next to him was a girl. She stood a foot shorter than the boy.

"What are you doing here?! Run!" the girl's voice was high pitched. "Ru—"

Her voice cut off as something grabbed hold of her legs and dragged her back into the shadows. Branches tore and mud scraped as she disappeared with horrifying screams.

Meera stumbled back in shock.

District 10 gasped in fright, "No!"

For a split second it looked like he was going to run after the girl but instead he started running the opposite direction. Meera's eyes widened as he scrambled to her side and grabbed her wrist.

"What are you doing!?" She tried to swat him away but his grip on her was firm.

"Run! C'mon!"

A rattle of a million cries suddenly shook the entire forest. A cannon boomed.

Meera shook her head. There was no time to resist. Following this stranger was better than seeing what would happen next. Her feet stumbled over roots and through mud and water. Branches lashed her face and arms. District 10 struggled beside her.

"What's happening!?"

"It's coming!"

"What is!?"

The boy was too scared to say. She jerked her head around but there was nothing behind them, only shadows and that awful sound.

She gasped as he grabbed her spear and flung it into the woods, "That isn't going to do much good!"

Cracks and ripples simmered. The forest was angry.

All Meera could think about was the way the earth had swallowed up that little girl.

She leapt over a log and grabbed a branch. Her swing cleared the rocky brook below with one fluid motion but her boot got caught under a root on the other side. Before she realized what was happening her body fell to the ground, her hands sunk into the cold and viscous mud.

"Get up! Please! It's coming!"

Serrated breaths cut through the cold. Each time she tried to find her footing she slipped again. After seconds of struggle District 10 grabbed the pack on her back to bring her up, but just as he did something else grabbed her. She felt it tighten around her ankle.

"What is that?"

"What!?"

"My leg!" Meera shouted.

The initial jolt only pulled her back a few inches but then the second jolt came. A cry of horror roared from Meera as her entire body was suddenly dragged along the ground. Her hands clawed the earth but to no avail. She turned back and let out another yelp. A slimy serpentine vine was wrapped around her boot. It squirmed as if it were alive.

In desperation she lifted her eyes to see District 10 pull out a pocketknife and run after her. The cold water from the brook splashed into her eyes and up her nose. Rocks beneath the stream smashed into her cheekbones and jaw. Somehow in the chaos she flipped onto her back and tried to unwrap the slimy root but its grip was too tight. Roots, rocks, and reeds punched into her back. One hit her just under the ribs and sent her whimpering. All she could think of was the cannibalistic trees on her journey into this hell. Was she their next meal?

"I'm coming! Grab something! Grab anything! I can't catch up with you!"

Her eyes darted around in panic. She spread out her hands. Each time she tried to get a handle on the ground her grasp would slip away with the rest of her body. On the third try her bleeding hands anchored into a root under the mud. Pain shot through her legs and torso. The vine was still pulling on her, stretching her.

"Hurry!" she wailed. She couldn't hold on much longer.

District 10 dropped to his knees and started to saw. Noise thickened.

"Hurry!"

"Almost there…almost…got it!" As soon as the vine was cut it slithered away. Meera struggled to her feet. This time she didn't need to be told to run. Her feet sloshed through the trail.

Hissing, gurgling, roaring. The forest behind them was hungry.

They ran until daylight started to stream through the falling leaves and then they ran some more. It wasn't until they reached a clearing that Meera collapsed onto the ground and breathlessly looked back. The shadows seemed to swirl and coax, but soon they died down.

"What was that?"

The boy was much smaller than she remembered from the training room and interviews. His hollow eyes were unblinking.

"I don't know." He looked shell-shocked truthfully.

"The vine was pulling me."

"I don't know."

"The forest was alive, did you hear those sounds? The crane—it knew."

"What crane?"

Meera turned back to the shadows and wiped some mud away from her face. She had thought the forest would give her a hiding place but even under that canopy there was no relief.

_What kind of arena is this?_ She wondered in horror. It was as if the arena itself was alive. The Gamemakers had a sick idea of what made for good entertainment.

"It's getting dark," The boy said, "We should make a fire before the sun sets."

"What?"

Suddenly she remembered herself. She didn't know this boy. He may have saved her life in the woods but that didn't make him her ally. Her eyes distrustfully lingered on his face.

"I have food," he unzipped his bag and held up rations of dried beef, "Are you hungry?"

_Yes, but can I trust you?_

She studied him closely. Meera was small but this boy could give her a run for her money. Somehow his olive skin looked pale. He didn't look as sick as he had in the training room but his sunken in face definitely didn't look healthy. _I should say no, but I'm so hungry_. Her teeth raked against her bottom lip savagely. After a few quick seconds she made up her mind.

"Yes."

He tossed a ration to her, happily she tore it open and devoured it.

They rested near a crackling fire. Although Meera was sure that the smoke would give them away the boy was determined to warm up before night. He rubbed his hands close to the flames and shivered, promising he would extinguish the fire as soon the feeling returned to his fingers. Soon the color came back to the boy's cheeks and he sighed. Meera stayed far away from the flames. The heat was nice but she was adamant about being so close to another tribute.

"I'm Anders. What's your name?" He finally asked.

"Does it matter?"

"No…" the hollowness came back to his face, "…I guess it doesn't."

She dropped her eyes to the fire and nibble on the dried beef. It tasted a great deal better than any bark, "That girl you were with—the one that—"

That made the boy go pale once more, "I found her crying in the forest. I had to help her. She was so scared and little."

Meera scratch some mud off her hands, "You barely look old enough to be 13."

"I'm 14." He glared, "She was only 12. Now she's—"

Meera remembered the expression on the girl's face when she was dragged into the darkness. "I'm sorry."

He made no response to that. She felt ashamed.

"Fire's going out," he said after a time, "It's about time for me to be on my way."

"What?"

"Smoke probably brought unwanted attention. You should leave too."

"But I—" suddenly Meera felt alone, "You can't just leave. I owe you one."

"Maybe you do. Maybe you don't."

"I do. Please—" she was begging she realized. _Am I really this pathetic? To beg for a little boy's company?_

He rummaged through his pack and brought out a knife and sheath. Her eyes widened at the sight of it. "Here. I saw that spear you tried to make, that won't help you. You can have this. I have an extra."

It dropped to the grass. Meera stared at it in disbelief. "Why are you doing this? Saving my life, giving me food and weapons?"

"You needed help so I'm helping you."

"For all you know I'd kill you if I got the chance."

"Which is why I'm leaving. You can't trust anyone in these games." The last part sounded like it came right out of a mentor's mouth. "But if you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. I saw you in the training room—you aren't who I need to worry about."

Meera fell silent. It was true. She had no intention of murdering anyone, especially not a little boy. He didn't sound like a little boy, however, that much was apparent. Suddenly the hollowness of his eyes looked wise. _Maybe he'll do better off than me_.

"Wait! The boy from my District—Faron—have you seen him?"

She had no clue why she asked the question.

"Didn't you see?"

"See what?"

For a moment he dropped his eyes. Meera knew it then…that look, she had seen it many times throughout her life. Each time it made her nauseous. "He barely left the cornucopia before—Careers were everywhere, they came in with a game plan. I saw them herd other tributes like cattle. Blood was everywhere."

She felt lightheaded, "But—I didn't see his face—when they showed the fallen tributes—" Meera had been so tired that she hadn't paid enough attention. Humiliation chocked her as she recalled Faron's childish cries when his score had been announced. _He never stood a chance. I should have looked for him and not that stupid backpack, I killed him by not helping him. Selfish, selfish girl._

"Did you see it?"

The boy named Anders tried to play it off but one look in his eyes was enough to solidify that he had seen everything

"Who?" she was surprised to hear her voice cracked, "Who did it?"

"That girl from District 2. I don't know her name. I only know to stay away from all of them."

She let out a breath and closed her eyes. Anger rose in her chest. "Livia. Her name's Livia."

_The bitch couldn't get her hands on me so she slaughtered Faron. _A part of Meera wished the forest had swallowed her. She had never felt this way before. It felt like her skin was crawling. This was what it meant to be a tribute in the games. Loss and fear, that was all it boiled down to.

When Anders left the fire died into embers. Evening was quickly turning into night but Meera just sat there. She sat there till there was nothing glowing. She sat there until the fresh ash blew onto the grass, only then did she pick up her bag and pull on her hood. She clutched her hands together, feeling the cold set into her skin.

The whirlpool of silver stars was coming out and Meera solemnly gazed up at them. They looked as peculiar as they had the night prior. Glade had told her to survive, but at best she was only breathing. To survive she had to fight.

A memory of Livia's cruel smile made Meera's eyes dull.

It was only a matter of time before the Careers would fan out, only a matter of time before they would find her. The death count was at fifteen. That still left nine tributes. Meera's choices were few. Strength was something she lacked but she still had quickness. She needed to remember how to be fast again. Survival was as bitter as the cold around her, but this arena was a game and if she truly wanted to live to see her home then Meera needed to play.

An unnatural shriek bellowed from the haunted forest before her, goosebumps rose all over her skin. This arena was alive. There was no question about it now. Meera had been thrown into a world where the earth devours humans, where the smallest step in the wrong direction could kill you. The cameras were watching, all of Panem was watching. But tonight was not the night they would see her die…after that death would be uncertain.

A frosted breath rose from her pale pink lips. Without another thought she strapped the knife to her belt and turned west.


End file.
